


Devil's Hell

by SoulfireInc



Series: Daredevil Fanfiction [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Avocados, Avocados at Law, Emotional Whump, Evil Corporations, Experimentation, Gen, Igh, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, PTSD, Post-Defenders, Recovery, Ruinion, Torture, Whump, You Have Been Warned, according to user frimousse, and a therapist, defenders family, everyone rallies, lowkey jessmatt, may cause tearful breakdowns, post-Midland Circle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/pseuds/SoulfireInc
Summary: While Jessica Jones investigates IGH she expects to find many horrible things. After all, they made her who she is, and from what she and Trish found, they'd done a lot worse to a lot of people. The last thing she expected to find, however, was the man she thought she had killed at Midland Circle. But after months of experimentation, there is little of the Matt Murdock she knew left in the dead-eyed husk with a host of scars. She doesn't know if she and the others can bring him back into the light, but she'll be damned if she leaves him for dead a second time. Multiple POVs, Jessica and Matt-centric.





	1. Where to Buy a Superhero

**Author's Note:**

> Another plot bunny that's been waiting for a break in my book-writing to be freed. A work in progress but it will be updated as often as possible. Focused on the Defenders extended family and how none of them is willing to leave a man behind (again). Team Avocado gets a new honorary member. Comments are life, and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading :)

            She gave a fake name, of course. Wore a dress that stopped most men from paying attention to her face. Put her hair up and even invested in the cheapest makeup she could find. Trish had done her nails. She looked nothing at all like Jessica Jones. She’d blazed through a whole pack of Tic-Tacs for good measure, drowning the tang of whiskey from her breath with an aggressive layer of mint. Even if they had kept tabs on her, she defied anyone to recognise her like this. Even Trish had done a double take when she’d slouched out of the bathroom, teetering slightly in unnecessarily high heels. She had said the scowl was the only familiar thing about her.

            Jessica wasn’t sure if she was more excited or angry. Or possibly nervous. She and Trish had been investigating for months, ever since Trish decided Jess needed a distraction after the Midland Circle thing. It took a lot of digging to reach the well-hidden dirt buried under the PR-perfect IGH, and a lot of time trying not to puke on the darknet. People were freaks. And now she was, as far as these assholes knew, a freak of the finest order.

            She laughed at the man’s shitty joke, her voice transformed into the slightly simpering falsetto that was most associated with an under-active intellect. She flirted back at him, her words jerking through the air as though carried by meat hooks, her thick Californian accent complementing the fake tan she’d spent twenty goddamn dollars to slather herself with. It would be worth it when she got to the punching.

            The tour began, and Jessica was glad she hadn’t had a breakfast. It took everything she had – years of embracing stoicism and months of Kilgrave-induced repression – for her to maintain the character she’d sculpted. To keep her expression impressed. Interested. Ingratiating.

            All she wanted to do was rip this godforsaken building to the ground and make sure that everyone from the CEO to the plumber got landed in jail with multiple life sentences. Anyone who knew this was happening and did nothing. Everyone whose nine to five revolved around finding new ways to violate human rights and who woke up eager for another day of _torture._

            There were currently twenty-three ‘patients’ in IGH’s carefully concealed and covered up ‘research laboratory’ in Westchester. ‘Patient’ was the word they used for victims of their experiments. And ‘experiments’ was their word for torture. There were currently twenty-three people who had ‘volunteered’ (which meant they could go missing without anyone loud enough raising a fuss big enough to be noticed by anyone important enough) to be made better. Several had been homeless, plucked from some soup kitchen with lies. A few were people new to New York who didn’t have any family checking in on them. Jessica was a tough woman, anyone who knew her knew that. So did several who had dealt with her in passing. By the fourth viewing, she felt sick. Rotten to the core with putrid cockroaches crawling all over her _sick_ while her heart focused intently on pumping blood so it didn’t fall to tatters.

            “Maybe my next recommendation would be more suited if you told me a little more about what kind of bodyguard you need, Miss Hannigan?”

            Jessica blinked back another wave of revulsion at this man, this secretary-turned-Satan’s-PA man who was talking about _people_ as though they were customisable headphones or some shit. Plastering a smile so sweet it hurt across her face, she pretended to think about it.

            “Well, given my work and the, eh, clientele I usually deal with, I need someone fast. A good fighter, and definitely one with a good radar, y’know? Someone who’ll identify threats before they’re real threats.” She caught herself, her smile faltering as a pair of unfocused chocolate eyes and a dopey grin flashed behind her eyes, quickly erased by a burst of flame behind glass and a shockwave that struck her gut and then her heart as dust billowed into the sky with a groan that sounded like misery itself.

            She covered her stumble with another dazzling (if wavering) smile and forced herself to hear the guy’s next words.

            “Well we have several subjects with extraordinary strength and fighting skills, but if it’s a guard dog you want we have one in particular I think will interest you.”

            God did she want to punch his smarmy face off.

            “Although I must warn you,” he continued, dropping his voice as though imparting the single most scandalous statement ever conceived, “it is still a bit rough around the edges. I shouldn’t even be showing you, strictly speaking, but we so rarely get a woman of your stature and, if I may be so bold as to say, beauty, I feel honour-bound to inform you.”

            His face got worse the more he smiled. She smiled back and imagined choking him with his stupid pink tie.

            “Mr Sawyer, you’re gonna make me blush,” she flirted back in her most simpering, cringe-inducing tone. She blinked, injecting porn-worthy false innocence into her eyes. “But what do you mean ‘rough around the edges’?”

            He led her to the next observing deck – an antechamber behind the two-way glass that offered an unpleasantly detailed view of what IGH did to people. Well, she amended, remembering the reason she started investigating these shitbags in the first place. The unlucky people.

            “Well it can take some time to, shall we say, _distill_ the essence of a particular trait or ability so it can be transferred and otherwise made marketable. This subject I’m about to show you has been … difficult to fully, ah, quantify.”

            “Quantify?”

            “Break.”

            She looked through the mirror at a man strapped to a table in the other room, surrounded by assholes in white coats and jumpsuits. Walking clichés of sci-fi horror, but then, all clichés exist for a reason.

            A blue mask covered the man’s face, it almost looked like a VR headset, only there was a thick tube connecting the mouthpiece to a bank of machines. The man was writhing and straining against his restraints, his body jerking horribly under the hospital gown as whatever they were doing to him intensified. An IV full of drugs that probably would have killed half the rats they hadn’t been tested on was strapped to the man’s left arm, while the fingertips of his right were attached to something grey that snaked from a small silver box to bite each finger like thimbles on wires. A light on the box flashed and the arm began to shake viciously, the man’s unseen abdomen clenching in a pain he either wasn’t vocalising or was drowned by double-glazing.

            Jessica bit back her bile.

            “This particular subject has been quite a devil for our team,” Sawyer continued conversationally as he shut the door behind them. “It took over six weeks for him to stop fighting every procedure – you know we actually needed to call security to transport him from room to room?”

            “Quite the fighting spirit,” she mumbled, transfixed by the man on the table. One of the whitecoats injected something into his IV and his writhing changed. Now it was tight and painful looking, as though his muscles had seized into a prison of flesh and it was his soul thrashing in agony that caused those shaking tremors.

            “Indeed, indeed. But they’re all subdued in the end. He’s truly been a fascinating subject, given the boys in the lab an awful lot to comb through. He’s really opened our eyes about human sensology.”

            Jessica frowned as she watched the man on the table. His feet faced the mirror behind which she and Mr Dick watched his pain, the pale soles crisscrossed with angry red welts and burns. From the maze-solving ‘exercises’. If you stood still too long or if your pain amused the fuckers at the controls the wires embedded in the floor would heat up enough to glow red. She’d seen it done. She took a moment to fight the urge to punch through the glass – and then the whitecoats. If Trish hadn’t guilted her into pinky-promising to come home tonight, she’d already be halfway out of this hellhole, thirteen ‘patients’ on her shoulders.

            Although, logistically, that would be problematic.

            “What do you mean ‘sensology’?”

            “Well this subject has extraordinary sensory abilities – it’s what makes him worth all the trouble, and,” he chuckled, “the price of his abilities.”

            Jessica froze. The dickwad clearly interpreted that as an invitation to continue.

            “It’s really quite fascinating, and took us well over two months to quantify, but we’re just a few weeks from finally verifying a serum that can replicate the subject’s qualities. Injected into a host, it will enhance their senses to a point that, in some cases, even modern technology can’t quite match.”

            Something cold and slimy squirmed in Jessica’s stomach, her gaze boring into the mask that covered the writhing man’s face. “What do you mean, ‘enhanced senses’? Enhanced how?”

            “Well,” he began chirpily, clearly interpreting her expression as interest, “this particular subject has remarkable hearing – our tests show it’s no less than twice as keen as a canine’s. So one enhanced with the serum we’re deriving from his blood and bone marrow would have similarly honed senses. This is of course highly useful – and weaponisable – in a guard or soldier. Early warning systems, excellent reactionary times,” Sawyer droned on but Jessica barely heard him over the rushing in her ears. She was about to be sick. Or pass out.

            Maybe both.

            This couldn’t be a coincidence, it couldn’t be. No matter how unlikely. No matter how impossible. The ice curling from her stomach to her heart knew it wasn’t.

            “... detecting poisons and even lies!” the asshole she was most likely going to throttle finished with an air of affixing a truly irresistible bait to a gleaming fishhook. She nodded, hoping her face was more impassive than in felt.

            “Why isn’t this subject available to buy directly?” she asked, aiming for sweet to disguise the revulsion. The door to the torture chamber opened and a white coat stepped in, followed by two comically burly men in dark uniforms. They injected another something into the man’s IV and waited until his convulsions stopped. His heaving chest eased to a slumberous rhythm.

            “Ah, well, I’m sure it will be soon,” the man she was definitely going to knock out assured her. “But for now we need more time to refine the formula, it’s been having some undesirable side effects. And between you and me,” he stage-whispered, leaning in closer to her fists while the burly men unstrapped the man’s wrists and ankles, then the mask, “this one’s been harder than usual to fully break. A funny thing, really, as we tailor the breaking to the subject,” he added as though talking about some horse. “But this one’s a fighter. Quite remarkable, really. Especially considering he’s blind.”

            One of the behemoths lifted the man, his forearms forcing the comparatively scrawny arms wide as they pushed under his armpits. As the head flopped forward Jessica saw dishevelled and matted brown hair. She saw thick eyebrows and half-open chocolate eyes that were as alien as they were familiar.

            Son of a cock-sucking jackass _bitch_.

            It was him. It was Matthew fucking Murdock.

            _Or at least_ , her stunned mind amended, taking in the less-than-human deadness of his eyes, _what was left of him_.


	2. Impulse Decisions

            The phone was already ringing as she checked the bathroom. Empty. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and grimaced. She looked nothing like Jessica Jones.

_“Jess?”_

            “Trish –”

_“What’s wrong?”_

_Where to start?_ “A lot. IGH is literally evil. Like, Satan incarnate.”

            Trish didn’t sound entirely convinced. _“Yeah, but we kinda knew that …?”_

            “Yeah but we were still way off. And speaking of the devil, he’s here. Matt’s here.”

            There was a very loud pause.

_“Jess …”_

            “Don’t _Jess_ me!” she snapped, glancing nervously to the door. How long could she pretend to pee before Dickwad got suspicious and sent someone in? Did their guests ever shit in their five-star bathrooms? How much time did she really have?

            “Listen, I know it sounds crazy – it is. But Matthew Murdock is alive and somehow he’s in IGH. And they’ve been fucking him up for months, Trish. I think since Midland Circle.”

_“Jess that was almost six months ago –”_

            “I know! Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know what the fuck is going on here, but somehow, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen didn’t die at Midland Circle. Somehow, he’s here and he’s …” She swallowed hard, hiding her gaze from her reflection. “He’s in bad shape, Trish. I gotta get him outta here.”

            She waited, listening to Trish’s exaggeratedly slow, calming breath, unconsciously mimicking it. Her gaze found her reflection’s once more. She looked nothing like herself. Soft makeup, rosy cheeks, understated eyeshadow and an even tan that just looked alien on her.

_“Jess … if you’re right –”_

            “I am. It’s him.”

_“If you’re right then what do you want to do? Can you break him out?”_

            “What do you mean can I –!”

            _“You know damn well what I mean!”_ Trish snapped across the line, her tone unusually harsh. _“Look, I know how messed up you’ve been since Midland Circle, I know Matt’s death hit you hard –’_

            “You’re sounding an awful lot like you think I hallucinated him.”

_“No, Jess.”_ Soft. Gentle. _“I don’t think that. I think you’re ten seconds away from abandoning the plan to get him out of there, and if that’s what you want to do I’m not gonna stop you. But –”_

           “Ugh god, you and your buts –”

            _“But if you go al_ _l_ Jessica Jones _and bust your way out of IGH’s headquarters then what happens? Even if you can get past their security. What happens when they figure out who you are? If they catch what you’ve been doing there? Jess, what if they come after you before we’re ready?”_

           “I really hate it when you’re the unyielding voice of reason.”

            _“Hey, someone’s got to be. I’m just saying … he survived six months there, Jess. I hate to say this, but if he can last another few weeks, then we can bring down the whole operation, free everyone, not just him. Considering what he did … don’t you think that’s what he’d want?”_

           Jessica stared into her reflection’s eyes, the only familiar feature in a stranger’s face. What Trish was saying made sense. It was the responsible thing to do. Sacrifice the one for the many. Affect real change. Make people answer for what they’ve done. If she grabbed Matt and ran then getting back in here, in any of their branches, was gonna be impossible. They’d know her face. They’d know her name. They could find Trish and Malcolm.

           If she rescued the devil from hell she would be starting a war. One she wasn’t sure she could win.

           The image of Matt’s limp body being manhandled off the table flashed behind her eyes. His grey skin, made all the paler by the dark beard that didn’t suit him. The eyes that looked … hollow. Dead.

           “He won’t survive another few weeks here, Trish,” she said with hated certainty. “I’m not so sure he’s survived this long.”

           She considered her reflection. Who she saw herself to be. Who she was. She didn’t have to wonder what Matt would have done if the situation was reversed.

           This wasn’t a choice.

           “I’m getting him out of here.” The reflection’s eyes were steady, resolved. She saw a strength in them that she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Get ready to meet me with the car. And call Claire, tell her to be ready for a beat-up ghost. We’ll meet her at your place.”

            _“My place?”_ Jessica couldn’t help the flicker of pride in the absence of fear in Trish’s voice.

           “We may need a fortress.”

            

*****

 

            Sawyer was waiting in the observation room where she’d left him. A cherub-faced intern was tapping away at one of the computers. How did he get this gig? Why did he want to add ‘minion of evil’ to his resumé?

            “Would you like to continue the tour, Miss Hannigan?”

            Her cheeks hurt from smiling. “Of course! Oh, but would you mind grabbing me a coffee before we go on?” She gestured vaguely with a hand bedecked with rings big enough to kill a man. “Long flight, you know. Jetlag.” God _damnit,_ her cheeks!

            The human shit stain laughed like she’d just told the first joke he’d ever heard. What a freak.

            “Of course, miss, of course! Why don’t you wait right here and ask Jonathan about the timescale for those enhanced senses you’re so keen on! I’ll be right back. Cream and sugar?”

            “Black.” _Like your soul._ Another painful smile. Either she’d missed her calling as an actress or this guy was as dumb as he was evil. But then, did he ever deal with anyone real in his nine to five? Not anyone who wasn’t tied down and screaming.

            He gave a sickening little bow as he left, closing the door carefully behind him. The whitecoats in the torture chamber were hosing down the table with something that steamed slightly against the steal. Satan’s intern spun around in his office chair with an expression of actual _glee_ on his pimple-free face.

            “Do you have any questions, Miss Hannigan? Patient Twelve really is an interesting one.” He looked so open, so friendly. Like a barista before the will to live was steamed out of them.

            “Uh, yes, actually,” she trilled, imagining the many, many bottles of bourbon that would be needed to burn this sickly sweetness from her memory. “He’s really fascinating, you know? I’d love to know where you got him? What you’ve been doing to, eh, get the serum?”

            The intern smiled indulgently. “Well I’m afraid a lot of that is classified. I think he was picked up from some mission centre in the city. Hurt real bad, I think, but that didn’t stop him giving our boys a fight!”

            She laughed with him, wanting to crush his skull. Just a bit.

            “A mission centre? What, was he a hobo?”

            Jonathan shrugged. “All I know’s what’s in the file, and that’s mostly what we’ve learned since we started treatment.”

            Her ears pricked. “His file?” She batted her eyelashes, feeling horribly cheap and ignoring it as the intern shifted slightly in his chair. “Could I maybe see that? I like knowing what I’m buying.”

            He shook his head with an air of tragedy. “I’m sorry but I can’t – they’d fire me before I even opened it!” He gestured to the computer behind him. “They’re all encrypted, with failsafes and passcodes to access them.”

            She took a small step closer, lowering her voice slightly and half-reaching for his arm. “But you can access them, can’t you Jonathan?”

            God men were _easy_. He was blushing and everything. Had he never met a girl before?

            “I can, but, uh –”

            “I’m not asking you to get in trouble. I just wanna see, y’know?” She adopted a look of innocent worry. “I just want to be sure whatever serum I’m buying won’t have his violent traits too.” She bit her lip, glancing away for a moment before meeting his over-eager gaze again. “I need someone to protect me. Someone I can trust. I need to know they aren’t gonna turn on me ‘cause of some bad go-juice.”

            She held his gaze for a long moment, watching the primitive cogs turning. He glanced from the computer to her and back again, looking like he was battling a deep moral conflict. As though this asshat had morals.

            “I guess I could show you a little,” he said quietly, leaning slightly towards her.

            “Great!” she snapped back, straightening up and raising expectant eyebrows at the idiot.

            “Oh, uh … yeah, here.”

            His fingers clicked over the keyboard and a file opened. She watched each stroke with an eagle’s eye, committing the sequence to memory. He leaned back slightly so she could see the screen.

            “It’s mostly video files, from the experiments –”

            “Where is he now?” Harsh. Commanding.

            “What?”

            “Subject Twelve.” She threw him a smile, adjusting her facade.

            “Oh he’s …” Fingernails clicking plastic. “Back in sense dep. It’s our most effective way to sedate him, long-term, except his cage. And to monitor his limits. You know, once we actually –”

            She punched him. Hard. His head snapped back and he slumped from his chair like a sack of flour with limbs, blood already oozing from his nose. Jessica reached up and pulled the elaborate hairpin from her do, letting her raven hair fall back around her face.

            To business.

            She pulled the tampon from her purse and opened it, revealing the thumb drive the idiots had been too PC to notice. It clicked into the computer and she typed in the commands to copy Matt’s file – and as many others as she could – into the sixteen gigabytes of space. She had maybe another three minutes before Sawyer was back, and then it was game on.

            A quick search yielded a map of the department. ‘Sense dep’ must mean sensory deprivation, and that unit was one floor down, third door on the right from the elevator. She scanned the rest of the schematics, planning her way out. Their security was too good for her to make it back to the lobby, or the service entrances once the alarms started wailing. If she could just make it to an external window she could jump it and hope her ankles didn’t snap in these stupid shoes. Her brow furrowed. The nearest window to where Matt was now was still halfway across the floor, and it looked like there were a hell of a lot of staff rooms in between the two.

            Oh well. More fun for her.


	3. Jailbreak

            Jessica tried not to enjoy the squelching crunch of Sawyer’s nose against her fist, but really, it _is_ the simple things in life you treasure. Like kicking a shithead in the groin or denting the drywall with his head. And if you can’t enjoy the little things, what’s the point?

            She closed the door carefully after her, the mechanical buzz sliding the lock into place. There weren’t many people in the corridors – this was a work space after all – so she guessed she had maybe ten minutes before anyone noticed her. The aggressively peppy floral dress was now a true liability: she couldn’t have stuck out more if she wore an inflatable Hulk suit.

            She stalked to the stairwell, bypassing the lift. It required a fingerprint to operate, the stairs just needed a key card to grant access. Sawyer had been thoughtful enough to donate his to her cause. Now she just had to hope whoever was on security detail monitoring the cameras was lazy, stupid, or addicted to caffeine or tobacco. She resisted the urge to leap from stairs to stairs, maintaining the image of a helpless dress wafer as long as she could in case she was caught. Always best to keep the whole superstrength thing as an ace up your sleeve.

            The chirping ding and flashing green light announced her arrival on the floor below. She yanked the door open, just a crack at first, and checked the corridor outside. No sign of evil scientists. She slid out through the gap and walked as fast as her idiot shoes would allow, searching. There, third door on the right from the elevator – which was dinging open. Jessica waved the key card frantically over the reader, almost pulling the door off its hinges as the green light flickered, and ducked inside, closing it firmly behind her and hoping whoever was in the lift hadn’t seen her stupid dress.

            “Em, excuse me? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

            Jessica turned around to see two overweight assholes in white coats gaping at her over a bank of computer screens.

Ah. Evil scientists. Right.

            She laughed her shrillest, trilliest laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I think I lost my guide!”

            “This is a secure room!”

            She took a non-threatening step forward.

            “Really? So you can’t run straight out if I do this?” She lashed out at the speaker, knocking her out cold while the other one yelped and made for the door. Sure enough, he fumbled the card and it fell, giving her plenty of time to grab his collar and fling him across the room and into the wall.

            She glanced over the computer screens. Most of it was scientific mumbo jumbo, but there was one that was very clearly monitoring vital signs. A red heartbeat pulsed across the lower third, flickering in the low seventies. Jess frowned. She didn’t need a medical degree to get the gist these readouts were giving. Whoever was being monitored was not doing well.

            The room curved in an L-shape, cutting the observes off from the observed. Jess abandoned the computers and followed the room around to a raised box that looked more like a Cold War bunker than anything else, a lattice of steps and catwalks surrounding its top.

            The slimy something in her stomach returned and squirmed as she leaped up onto the gangplank. Matt was in there. Matt was alive. Matt was right behind that submarine door.

            She wasn’t sure what to expect once she opened the tank. What state would he really be in? Best guess, he’d fight tooth and nail until he realised it was her. She took a deep breath, gripped the raised edge of the heavy metal door, and yanked.

            It came free with a piercing shriek, ripping from its hinges and clattering down the stairs as she discarded it. Inside was so dark she thought for one bizarre second it just held a slate of black rock or metal. Then she noticed the subtly shifting texture of water, light glistening faintly along rapidly increasing ripples. She almost couldn’t hear the low splashing over the sharp gasps that filled the chamber.

            “Matt? Matt it’s me. It’s Jessica.” She reached in as she spoke and found a leg. As soon as she touched him he jerked away. Gritting her teeth she ducked into the doorway, blocking the light and groping through the weirdly warm water until she found his arms and hauled him free.

            He was shaking slightly, his shallow breathing uneven, sightless eyes searching under fluttering lids. His ribs stuck out in sharp relief, water trickling between them like rivers through ravines.

            “Matt?” she whispered, hooking her arm behind his shoulders. He flinched lethargically at her touch. “Matt, it’s okay. It’s Jessica. I’ve got you.” No response. She tapped his cheek. Nothing.

            “Shit.” Whatever sedative they’d given him earlier clearly hadn’t worn off yet. She hoped.

            She carried him back around the corner, then hesitated. It wasn’t exactly balmy out and he was dripping wet. Setting him carefully down and trying not to be freaked out that he still wasn’t so much as stirring, she pulled a coat off one of the unconscious assholes, then carefully wrapped it around Matt’s much smaller frame, gently pulling his arms through the sleeves.

            “It’s gonna be okay, Matt,” she found herself whispering, though she doubted he could hear anything now. His eyes had slid shut and his breathing was barely noticeable. She really hoped that was just the sedative.

            An alarm shrieked through the air, eviscerating the quiet moment with sharp pulses of razor sound. Jessica gasped and covered her ears, her heart leaping in her chest. _Shit_. Time up. Adjusting to the unrelenting wail she reached for Matt, carefully pulling him over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry and actively ignoring the growing whirlpool of anxiety in her stomach that churned at the fact that the guy with _superhearing_ hadn’t so much as flinched at a sound that was already giving her a headache.

            _Just the sedative. Like sufentanil probably. He’ll just be totally out of it for a few hours. It’s just the sedative._

            She held his wrist securely in one hand and used the other to wrench the door open, fancy lock be damned. Four of the behemoths in security uniforms were already jogging down the corridor for her. She stepped out to meet them, vaguely aware that the sight of four oversized, over-muscled thugs running towards her with guns and batons raised would probably intimidating to most people. Hell, maybe on another day she’d pause. But not today.

            These people had aided and abetted the imprisonment and fucking _torture_ of Matthew Murdock for god knew how long. They were _hers._

            She kicked the broken door into them, drawing their fire and unbalancing two, giving her time to leap forward and kick one of them into the wall so hard it cracked and he crumpled. She punched another and a spray of blood and, she was pretty sure, teeth, splattered the floor and he went down, hard. The last two were scrambling for their guns. One was too slow to dodge her flying foot, but it did give the other the time he needed to aim and fire. Jessica hissed as the bullet ripped past her side, grazing her lower ribs. She felt hot blood trickle over the silk of the dress. She lashed out with her heel, catching the shithead in the throat with the stiletto and he gasped as blood burst from the puncture wound.

            She snarled as he fumbled his weapon, kicking it out of reach as he clutched his bleeding throat with his other hand. She leaped over the four of them, landing clumsily and swearing as one ankle rolled painfully. Reaching down with her free hand she ripped the stupid shoes off and threw them over her shoulder. A low grunt told her at least one of them hit a guard. She smiled, adjusted her grip on the still very unconscious Matt, and ran forward.


	4. A Lesser-Known Way to Ruin Date Night

            Claire had no idea what was simmering in the pot on the stove but _damn_ did it smell like _heaven._ Rich and tomatoy with a zinging harmony of spices she couldn’t quite place. She inhaled deeply through her nose and snuggled deeper into the couch, her wine sloshing lazily in her glass.

            This was the first real day off she’d had in way too long. The most important decision she’d had to make today was which bottle of wine to open (first). Luke was in between hero gigs and had spent the whole day pampering her, from breakfast in bed and picking up her dry cleaning, to spending almost two hours on whatever nectar of the gods he was brewing in the kitchen. For the first time in _months_ she felt … happy. Deeply happy, and calm, free for an entire day from the Ache. She wasn’t even thinking about it. Or him.

            Today, life was _good_.

            “How’s it going in there, Betty Crocker?” she called around another sip of wine.

            “Almost ready, T-minus twenty, I’m thinkin’.” Luke shot her that tight-lipped smile that never failed to make her heart beat just a little bit faster.

            Claire reached for the open magazine on the coffee table and pulled it into her lap. God, when was the last time she just sat around with a glass of vino and a stupid magazine? This was _the life!_ Oh and look, another celebrity romance had imploded and apparently the Avengers had picked up a new member. Not a bad suit, but she wondered if a spider really was the _best_ symbol to go for. Although maybe he was going for mildly terrifying? She shrugged and flipped the page.

            The landline rang, loud and rude into the peaceful apartment. Claire scowled at it for a moment before returning her attention to the quiz. Her life would absolutely be improved by knowing which breed of dog she was.

            It kept ringing.

            Claire leant her head back over the couch and wailed to Luke, “If only there was someone already on their feet who could overcome the mighty –”

            “I’m gettin’ it, I’m gettin’ it!” he griped, throwing her a glare that was entirely undermined by the affection in his eyes. He grabbed the receiver and wedged it between ear and shoulder, looking all kinds of adorable in the too-small apron with a half-dried pot in his big hands. Claire almost managed not to giggle at the sight.

            She looked back to the magazine, trying to decide if she wanted to accept fate and forever be a pitbull or slightly fudge her last few answers and be a corgi. Decisions, decisions.

            The clang of metal on tile made her jump. Luke was standing stock still, his hand pressing the phone hard into his ear. His eyes were wide in disbelief, his entire posture tense. Claire leant forward, placing her glass on the coffee table and getting to her feet, her heart sprinting in her chest. She raised questioning eyebrows at him but he gave his head a tiny shake, his eyes locked on hers. Oh, god. That was not a good look. She mentally ran through what medical supplies she had in her kit, already imagining gunshot wounds and massive blood loss. If it was Jessica it wouldn’t be too bad, she healed almost as fast as Luke. Danny would need more help – shit, if it was Colleen Danny was gonna be a _mess_. She’d restocked just a week ago, she had everything she usually needed and if –

            Her frown deepened. Luke looked … scared? Maybe it wasn’t an injury. Maybe it was the Hand, or Mariah and Shades – what if Misty had gotten carried away on the job again, trying too eager to prove her prosthetic didn’t hold her back?

            Luke nodded, his eyes still fixed on her. There was something about his expression that sent ice shooting up her spine. He mumbled into the receiver, nodding again. She moved closer, her patience running out fast. Finally, he blinked.

            “We’ll be there in twenty. Yeah, yeah I will. Thanks, Trish.” He hung up.

            _Trish? Shit, it must be seriously bad._

            “Jessica?” she asked, her mind already ten steps ahead. “How bad is it? I’ll grab my bag and we’ll go – her apartment, right?”

            “Claire,” he said softly, reaching out and grabbing her wrist as she whirled away. “Jessica’s ...” He pulled her closer, his fingers strong and gentle around her hand. “She’s not hurt. At least, not badly. It’s, eh, something else.”

            She searched his deep obsidian eyes, actively holding back her panic.

            “What, Luke? What is it?”

            He took a deep breath and met her gaze. “It’s Matt. Matt Murdock. He’s alive. And he needs you.”


	5. Map of Scars

            Trish opened the door, the brief buzz of an expensive lock almost matching the frequency of Claire’s anxiety. She tried to smile at Trish, who tried to smile back, but neither of them succeeded. What did you say to the stranger you last saw at a funeral with an empty coffin? How do you act when your first time in their penthouse is to try to save the life of the man who should have been in that coffin?

            Her stomach shrivelled as she walked inside. She could hear Jessica swearing, calling for Trish. They quickened their pace as one, Trish leading them toward the choking gurgle Claire had heard far too many times in the ER, Luke a step behind her.

            For a single heartbeat, she froze on the threshold.

            It was Matt. It really was. She couldn’t see his face but she would know those scars anywhere. He was having some sort of seizure. Jessica’s hair blocked his head from view as she struggled to hold him down on the huge bed. For one moment, Claire ignored the welts and burns she could see even from here, ignored how visible the ribs were, ignored how his limbs twitched and convulsed, tuned out the horrible wheezing burble that was his breath. For the span of one sharp gasp, all she saw was Matt Murdock, and all she felt was a joy so big, so blisteringly bright, it filled every part of her. For one moment, the only thing she saw was her friend whom she had grieved, had cried for, had missed with an ache that had never truly eased, only grown more familiar. He was alive and he was lying three feet in front of her, and she was so, _so_ happy.

            And then the moment shattered. She blinked the tears away, and stepped forward.

            “Let me through,” she almost gasped, brushing Jessica aside. She mumbled something as she shifted her position, kneeling over Matt’s waist and holding his arms down to let Claire in.

            God, he looked terrible. Even for a dead man. He was grey and gaunt and his eyelids fluttered with every pained moan. Yellowish foam pooled at the corner of his mouth, trickling through his scruff. He was shaking hard, eyes rolling.

            “Tell me exactly what happened,” she said firmly, slipping into the years of study and practice. “I need to know everything. Has he taken drugs? When did the seizure start? How long’s he been out?”

            Jessica’s hair flung out as her head whipped around. “Uh, well god knows what they did to him, his blood is probably a cocktail right now, it started just after I got him here, so,” she glanced to Trish, “maybe three minutes?”

            Claire’s gaze snapped to hers, her hands stilling over Matt’s erratic pulse. “What do you mean, ‘god knows what _they_ did to him’?”

            Jessica exchanged another loaded glance with Trish.

            “Eh, well –”

            “Jessica, where did you find him?” Luke cut in, his calm voice oozing through the trepidation settling over Claire.

            There was a beat of almost painful silence. “IGH. He’d been there for at least two months, maybe ever since Midland Circle. They, em … They’ve been experimenting on him. Which is their word for corporate funded torture.”

            A far more painful silence filled the room, save Matt’s laboured breathing.

            “Well, fuck,” Claire sighed at almost the same moment Luke whispered, “Sweet Christmas.”

            Claire gave herself a tight shake and turned her attention to Matt. She’d just have to make do without the details. She stayed with him, pulling him onto his side, clearing his airway and murmuring reassurances as he rode through the seizure. His convulsions eventually slowed into an exhausted stillness, his jaw going slack as unconsciousness took him. They breathed a collective sigh of relief.

            “Okay,” Claire said, running her hands through her hair and thinking fast, then absently smoothing Matt’s shaggy hair. She looked up at Jessica, still kneeling on the bed beside him. “Tell me everything you know they did to him.”

            “I stole his file. If you give me a little time we’ll know every fucked-up thing they tried.”

            Wondering how her day had taken such a comprehensively bizarre and heart-breaking turn, Claire nodded. “You do that. I’ll see what I can do in the meantime. Call me when you’re ready.”

            With that, the others’ presence faded from her mind as she turned her attention back to Matt. He was certainly thinner than she remembered, and he hadn’t exactly had a lot of padding to begin with. But he wasn’t emaciated, just underweight. That was fine. They’d get him a buffet.

            His torso was littered with small half-healed burns that looked like the work of a Taser or something similar. Or, more accurately, an army of Tasers. There was some nasty bruising along the left side if his ribcage too, which was concentrated around a definite swelling. She probed it experimentally, keeping an eye on his reaction. Nothing. Definitely a bruised rib, possibly fractured. The skin was pulled so taut over the bone she half-expected to see the crack. She tried not to remember his hands on her back, describing what a hairline fracture sounded like.

            There were a few puncture wounds too, all of them shallow, all of them partially healed. None looked infected, but several were in need of butterfly stitches. Both his arms bore a scattering of needle marks, some swimming in yellowing bruises. An IV port was taped to his hand – they must have run out of usable veins. She carefully pulled it out and bandaged his hand, smoothing the tape down gently and eying his unresponsive face.

            The worst wounds were the oldest. Six months since the building collapsed and his body still bore obvious signs of Midland Circle. A long gash across his abdomen had been closed with clumsy surgical staples, the scar tissue thick and puckered like a tiny mountain range, pale blobs dotted along its length on both sides as though guarding it. Another knot of bone-white tissue rested at the base of his ribcage, just beneath the bruising and she was prepared to bet it had been caused by a compound rib fracture – or several, depending on the size. Or perhaps he’d been stabbed with falling debris? She frowned as she ran her hands over him, pressing firmly along the bones of his chest, his arms, his neck. She couldn’t be sure without some X-Rays, but she thought she felt several breaks under the pale skin, including a few definite broken ribs that had healed without proper binding and must be agonising. They would have to be re-broken to set correctly. His right shoulder was definitely damaged, maybe from being dislocated. One knee was swollen, too, possibly from a bad twist.

She looked to his face. Even unconscious he looked … was it fear that creased his brow? Or pain? Shaking her head she dismissed the idea of re-breaking the bum heals anytime soon. She had enough painkillers with her to take the edge off his agony and she’d be damned if she was going to cause him further pain, not until it was absolutely necessary. And not without him being awake enough to at least know that she was there, and that this would be the pain of healing.

            She had long since lost track of how many times she had patched Matt up after a fight. Lost count how often he’d shrugged off her concern and refused anything stronger than an aspirin for his broken ribs or inches-deep stab wounds. When Nobu and Fisk had beaten him half to death (a bit more than half, if she was honest), that was the only time the fear of their first encounter, of actually thinking this man might die in front of her, had returned her. But it had been tempered by anger for what had been done to him. Mostly, when she stitched him up or checked for concussions, she was torn between admiration for his ability to bear pain and exasperation for his ability to court it.

            This time she felt a rage, pure and red, glowing like embers in her stomach. Knowing that this time, these wounds – and she was only aware of the superficial ones, none of which explained a seizure – were inflicted upon him, while he had been _tied down_ and _helpless_ , unable to fight back, by people who didn’t give a shit that this was a _human being_ , made her hands shake as she wrapped bandages around the angry red abrasions covering inches of his wrists and ankles. A chaos of tiny cuts and raw skin that could only be caused by being chained down for long periods. And by fighting those restraints. Even when it made him bleed.

            Those injuries would scar. They would not be hidden under dress shirts and fitted jackets. Matt would feel them every time he felt for his watch, whenever he pulled on gloves or socks. Strangers and friends alike would spy them when he held his hand out to shake, to take an offered cup of coffee, and they would likely wonder why the blind lawyer had tried to kill himself. And, being Matt, he would hear the pity in their voices, feel their hesitation, and he would retreat into himself. These would remind him of what he was put through after he sacrificed himself to save New York City.

            And that, more than anything, made Claire glad she hadn’t been with Jessica today. Because if she had seen Matt, tied and struggling and _hurting,_ she would have been sorely tempted to break her oath. Her hands shook as she spread salves over the worst of the burns and she paused, forcing herself to breathe through her sudden fury. Matt was alive. He was home. This was a happy ending. Besides, there was no way IGH was going to get away with this, with any of this, and she could make do living vicariously through Luke and Jess and watching from the sidelines as everyone and anyone who had caused Matt Murdock pain was super-punched into jail.

            With a wry smile, she finished what she could, making a mental note to ask Danny to find them a portable X-Ray. She eyed the needle marks as she stood, wondering what horrors his bloodwork would reveal. Her gaze wandered along his battered torso to his lax features. Tears rushed to her eyes as though eager to see for themselves that he really was alive, heart beating and everything. She ran her fingers through his hair, relishing his miracle. He was alive and safe and nothing was going to stop him getting better. He’d be back in his city soon, taking on its endless pain with nothing more than a pair of billy clubs and a can-do attitude. She pressed a soft kiss into his forehead, lingering for a long moment to savour the touch she had thought she would never feel again.

            Straightening, she tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled, blinking away the tears. He was alive.

            She’d never had a prayer answered before.


	6. Reasons to Kill

            They were waiting in Trish’s living room, Jessica on the couch with a laptop open on her lap. The thumb drive she had filled with IGH files stuck out from the port, a tiny red light flashing innocently. Claire came to stand by Luke, automatically reaching out for his warm, sure hand. He wrapped his other arm around her and pressed a gentle kiss into her hair.

            “How’s he looking?” Jess asked, glancing over her shoulder as her fingers danced over the keyboard with unrealistic fluidity. “I mean, y’know, relatively speaking?”

            Claire sucked in a slow breath and shrugged. “Physically, he’s okay I guess. Though he’s some broken bones I’d like to reset at some point. Probably from Midland Circle.”

            There was a beat of silence.

            “So he really was down there when it fell?” Luke asked with quiet astonishment.

            Claire nodded. “Either that or the freaks at IGH have a kink for blunt force trauma and breaking bones. He’ll be okay though,” she added tiredly, seeing three matching expressions of concern. “Just … From what I could see, he just needs time. Some physio. And a decent nurse.”

            “Well then, he’ll be great in no time,” Luke said softly.

            “What about the seizure?” The genuine concern in Trish’s voice made Claire smile. Had she ever even spoken to Matt? Claire gave her head a little shake in answer, shrugging again.

            “Could be eight different things, no way to tell without equipment and blood tests.”

            “How about a full toxicology report?” Jessica asked triumphantly. “I’m in.”

            They huddled around the screen, all peering through the many-syllabled pharmaceuticals they had pumped into Matt in the last god knows how long.

            “Jesus,” Claire breathed, her chest feeling weighed down by the list.

            “What? You know what these are?”

            She nodded, swallowing hard and hoping her voice wouldn’t shake when she spoke.

            “Hallucinogens, sedatives, like nine different addictive substances. And there’s a couple I haven’t seen before but their names are too similar to anaesthetics and paralytics to be a coincidence. Jesus, no wonder he was seizing. A bunch of these shouldn’t be mixed.”

            “Sweet Christmas. What, were they using him as a distillery?”

            Claire knew he was being sarcastic, but the idea was horribly plausible. She chewed the inside of her cheek a moment, trying not to think of the five exsanguinated kids Matt had brought to Metro-General the night she – She bit down harder. Pushed the memory back down into its cage.

Knowing hearing the answer would only deepen the pit in her stomach, she asked Jessica,

            “What else did they do to him?”

            Jess clicked rapidly, several windows flickering over the screen. She read quickly, her face contorting in disgust.

            “Shit. I knew they put him in sensory deprivation tanks, but they also like, overstimulated him, like, right after.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “I think this was what I saw. They blared music – or sirens, I dunno, something loud and distracting, basically – and electrocuted him and didn’t let him sleep for days at a time. Jesus. Seven days straight on two occasions.”

            “I think I’m gonna be sick.” Trish stayed where she was on the couch, one hand covering her forehead. “I can’t believe people would do that to another person. Didn’t you say his senses are heightened or something?”

            “Majorly heightened,” Claire said quickly, feeling nauseous herself. “He can hear heartbeats, like, two blocks over if he concentrates.”

            “Sweet Christmas.”

            It took them half an hour to get through the rest of the files. The videos were the worst. Despite each of them feeling faint with disgust and pure horror they couldn’t bring themselves to leave any of them unwatched. Trish eventually stepped away, saying she would call Danny and get the supplies Claire had dazedly scribbled down for her. But the rest of them felt obligated to witness the records of what Matt had endured. Maybe they thought that by seeing it, by knowing what was done to him would save him from reliving it, from ever having to say it. Maybe their fight with the Hand, however brief, had forged a bond deep enough to make them want to share the burden of what Matt had been through. As though by knowing it, by watching him be half-drowned and electrocuted, by seeing him forced to run until he collapsed, seeing him fight his captors day in and day out until he was beaten into a three-day coma, by making themselves watch their comrade, their friend, be treated like a lab rat, would somehow break the horror of it into something small enough to fight. Or maybe they just needed gigabytes of evidence to believe a man could be so thoroughly dismantled, so completely broken down, and yet survive.

            Luke and Jessica watched video after video, read file after file with identical masks fixed carefully over their emotions. They worked through the thumb drive stoically, saying little that wasn’t some form of curse. But Claire could see how Jessica’s hands shook with tension, how Luke’s teeth clenched so hard he looked as though he had lockjaw. She saw the fury solidify in their eyes. She saw each new line of text or minute of shoddy footage gave them another reason to want to destroy IGH as thoroughly as they had destroyed the Hand, all those months ago.

            For Claire, there was another level to it. She had known Matt the longest. Her relationship with him went further than sharing a fight against impossible odds. She had seen, time and again, what those fights cost him. She saw how fiercely he defended what he loved, how committed he was to saving his city, as though completing that uncomplete-able task would somehow save himself. Claire watched him be tortured, heard his tinny screams and saw his jerking, convulsing body weaken and knew, surely and completely, that he had done nothing to deserve what they did to him. She also knew he would find a way not to believe that. But most importantly, she knew it would not be enough to break him. Not truly. Not when she was there to stitch him back together.

            Silence filled the apartment when the final file was shut. There were still nine folders of other IGH patients waiting to be opened.

            “So,” Jessica said at last, her tone tight with restrained fury. “We’re ending them tomorrow or Friday or ...?”

            “It’s not gonna be that simple, Jess,” Trish whispered from where she leant against the doorjamb, her voice hollow.

            Jessica scoffed. “We’ve got a human bulldozer, a billionaire martial arts punch guy, and me. They have guns, we have a walking shield. Sounds pretty simple to me.”

            Trish was shaking her head before she finished speaking. “No. If you break back into that branch –”

            “Headquarters.”

            “– the most you can do is steal whatever files they don’t erase and save the prisoners.”

            “Sounds good to me,” Jessica cut in defensively.

            “No, she’s right,” Luke sighed. “Taking down one branch, even the headquarters, isn’t going to be enough to really stop them.”

            “We need to take them down for good. Completely,” Claire finished.

            Jess heaved an aggrieved sigh. “This is going to involve a lot of patience isn’t it.”

            “We need to bring them down legally if we want it to stick,” Trish went on. “We have proof of what they do to people, but I’d bet my time slot the iceberg doesn’t end there. We need the buyers. The CEOs.”

            Jessica slumped forward and put her face in her hands, the closed laptop almost falling from her lap. “Skip to the part of the plan that involves me punching people.”

            “A corporation this big is bound to have vaults of info,” Luke said, pacing behind the sofa. “Protected servers, hard-copy ledgers. Records they can control. And it makes sense they’d be kept in the headquarters, with the most security available.”

            “Right, and we can figure out our targets, who’s in charge, who ordered all this ...” Claire waved one hand vaguely, trying to waft a suitable word from the ether. “Shit.”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll do the whole hero thing one more time, fine, I’m on board.” Jessica chucked the laptop onto the cushion beside her and stood to face the others. “But what do we do _now,_ today, about Matt? If we’re gonna storm the torture chamber he deserves to throw some punches.”

            Claire chewed her lip, looking through the open door to Matt’s still form. His chest rose and fell with subtle regularity, the covers concealing the scars and welts and too-prominent ribs, lending the scene a deceptive calm.

            “I think we should wait and see how he is before we commit to any storming.”

            “Should we call Nelson?”

            All eyes turned to Luke.

            “I mean, we should, right?” Trish’s brow was furrowed. “I’ve been working with Karen for months and she’s ... They should know.”

            There was a very obvious pause as no one reached for a phone.

            “I think ...” Claire said, feeling like a thoroughly shitty person, “we should wait.”

            Luke turned to her with a disbelieving eyebrow raised. “Wait? Claire, they think he’s _dead!”_

            “I know, I know,” she said defensively. “But my priority has to be Matt right now. Think about what he’s been through, Luke. When he wakes up – and god only knows when that’ll be – but do you think he’s going to be ready for a reunion with his best friends? Foggy’s known him for years, he’s the closest thing to family Matt’s had since he was a kid. Can you imagine what that will be like? You’ve seen him. You know what he’s been through. He needs time. Let him know he’s safe before we bring them in.”

            “Seeing _us_ will be hard enough,” Jessica said quietly. She glanced up to Trish. “If I were him I’d want some time to ...”

            “Fake being okay,” Trish supplied with a wry smile.

            “But they’ve been grieving, all this time.” Luke shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right. Leaving them out of this.”

            “Think about it,” Trish said pragmatically. “If we tell them Matt’s alive but they can’t see him, that’s a torture in and of itself. If we tell them he’s alive and they’re here when he wakes up, he’ll be smothered in worry, right? But if we hold off telling them until Matt is strong enough to see them, nothing changes for them. It’s not like he just died – it’s been six months.”

            Luke shook his head but shrugged. “I’m not saying I think it’s the right, move keeping them in the dark ... But we better tell Danny. That kid has no idea how to keep a secret.”


	7. Agonies

            He felt consciousness pulling on him like a hook wrenched through his mind. He clung to the numb darkness, but it was slippery as smoke, falling away as he was wrenched into awareness. The pain came first, as it always did. The first few deeper breaths of consciousness stoked the dull embers of badly healed bones, flaring angrily in his side, firing along his ribs and stabbing into his shoulder. He barely registered any of it.

            The stinging of his right fingertips howled into focus next, pulsing furiously with razor fangs to every sluggish beat of his traitor heart. The colonies of bruises twinged with every breath, the air scorching past the half-healed burns that littered his torso. The sandpaper that had replaced his throat scratched against itself as he swallowed, trying to keep his face impassive, eyes closed. They would know within seconds he was awake, he knew, but every second left alone was a tiny heaven.

            As the pain ebbed back to its usual, almost-ignorable levels, and the exhaustion sucked on his muscles like weighted molasses, habit catalogued his surroundings.

            Something soft pressed against his back in a strangely painless way. Cool, smooth sheets lay like thought over him, while the tightness of what was probably bandages clung to his feet, ankles, wrists, his hand. Bracing his ribs. Forgetting, he parted his lips to taste the room and detected little more than a vague _difference_. The absence hit him again, as it always did. As though half of himself was missing. Still. Wishing he could return to the nothingness, he took another investigative breath. Everything took so long now. The world formed so slowly since he died. He waited anxiously, his incessant heart beating faster as the fear he concentrated on ignoring built in anticipation. This wasn’t the tank, and it wasn’t the terror room either. It was new.

            He kept his eyes closed and his body relaxed as he tried to make sense of the sinking softness underneath him. So unlike the tables. More distinct than the tank. A far cry from the rounded bars of the cage. He knew whatever it was was familiar, he’d definitely encountered it before ... but the name for it escaped him. He breathed again and finally registered what was alien about the air. It was ... warm. Round. Not sterile. It didn’t bite with every breath.

            Bed. The thing he was lying on was a bed.

            He opened his eyes, frowning.

            _Not again. Please, God, not again._

            Ignoring the crescendo of complaints, he dragged himself onto one elbow, quietly amazed and instantly anxious that he was not tied down. The sheets fell into his lap, the whisper of the material lost to his half-deaf ears. Sweat was already beading his forehead. It was too quiet. Too still.

He couldn’t hear them. Any of them. No one was screaming. It would be a sweet relief if he didn’t know what was happening.

            _Please not again._

            His arms shook with his weight and he gingerly leaned back. Something solid met his shoulders. He waited a moment, tensed to pull away. It didn’t burn him. It didn’t even sting. Warily, he let the something solid take his weight, curling one arm around his abdomen as the ache that had once been his stomach was momentarily drowned out by a sharp tug along the thick scar _she_ had given him.

            The fear was thickening like a storm, heavy clouds circling inside his chest, gently suffocating him as his heart beat wildly in a futile attempt to escape what was coming. How much longer? Who would it be this time? He gave his head a little shake, one angry jerk as another breath shivered through him. He can’t say their names again. It was too dangerous. No matter who it was, no matter what they told him, he had to keep their names secret. Protected.

            Footsteps. Hurried. A gasp.

            “Matt!”

            He stiffened. Muscles locked. Breath froze. His pathetic heart shivered and ached at the sound of her voice.

            “Matt, it’s okay, you’re okay. It’s me. It’s Claire.”

            What he would give to be truly deaf. Each word, every note in the melody of her voice, the compassion dripping from every syllable, hearing his own _name_ again ... _Please,_ he thought desperately, _just send me back to the terror room. To the tank. Make me run, make me fight. Anything but this. Any pain but this._

            “Matt?”

            The bed dipped as she sat on its edge, only inches from him. He pulled his legs in tight, wrapping one arm around his knees. Her hand alighted gently on his forearm and he jerked away sharply, though the contact had not hurt. In fact it had been – _No. Don’t._

            “Matt,” she whispered again, keeping her hands away from him. He wished he could sense where, but she was lost to the black smoke that was all he could see. “It’s okay, I promise. You’re not in IGH anymore. Jessica got you out. You’re in Trish Walker’s apartment. You’re safe. We’re not gonna let anyone hurt you again. I swear to God, Matt.”

            She was so earnest. So ... real. He couldn’t remember any of the others being this rich, this ... accurate. But he shook his head again, biting down on his lip and curling his fingers into tight fists. It wasn’t real. She wasn’t real. It was just another hallucination. Another test. Another level of hell.

            What the hell was IGH anyway?

            Silence rose like a tsunami, ready to break any moment with a great wave of longing and loneliness. She would speak again, he knew it. They always did. But it wouldn’t be real. They weren’t here. They were dead.

            They were dead.

            Her fingertips brushed lightly against his arm and he flinched. There was space to his left he thought, maybe room enough to get away. But if it was that easy then it was part of the test, meaning that whatever lay in the empty space he couldn’t see would be worse than the phantom. It always was.

            So he stayed still, curling in on himself and trying to drown out the room by focusing on his own breath and ignoring her warm, gentle fingers as they slowly, _so slowly,_ curled around the bare skin of his right forearm.

            She didn’t say anything. Just left her palm against his skin, not moving. God, it felt so real. He even thought he felt a heartbeat – but no. It was just his own damned heart hammering against whatever they used to fake flesh in this simulation. It wasn’t real. _It wasn’t real._

            The silence stretched on, the wave climbing higher and higher as he shook on the bed, his spine knocking regularly against the wall that might actually be a headboard. The phantom didn’t move or speak, but kept the steady, light pressure of her hand on his arm as he trembled violently beneath it.

            He knew he needed to make a decision. They weren’t patient. If he didn’t move quickly enough they’d burn him, like in the maze. Or electrocute him, like in the water. Maybe just beat him. It would be smarter to just get it over with, either acknowledge the phantom and let it get whatever they wanted out of him or run into the empty space and face whatever torment hid there. It was only a matter of time. At least if he chose, he’d know from what direction the blow would come.

            A gusting breath shook through him as he slowly raised his head. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

            It had been a long time since he’d seen Claire in these hallucinations. It was usually Foggy or Karen. Or _her._ He couldn’t remember what had happened the last time it had been Claire, but he remembered how it felt. He remembered shrinking from her words. Her accusations. Foggy would just shout and list his failures, and Karen would always end up crying, always in anger and always in between remarks that cut worse than knives. _She_ would just remind him why he was there.

Maybe it would be better to just jump aside, take whatever was waiting for him in the black void he once was able to see.

            But her hand was so _warm._ So soft. He couldn’t remember any of the phantoms being tender before. This was all new.

            He turned his head in her direction, wishing his world would ignite again. He could barely see through these smoking embers he had been left with since the procedure. Or was it the drugs that had taken his senses, his identity?

            With the slightest pressure, she squeezed two fingers. Was that a warning? Or encouragement?

            “Can you hear me?” A whisper. Not an angry one.

            Swallowing hard down his sandpaper throat, he nodded once.

            The pressure on his arm increased for a fleeting, unpainful second. He wasn’t shaking quite so much anymore.

            “It’s really good to see you again, Matt.”

            He frowned. She sounded like – was she crying? None of this made any sense.

            “I know this must be so confusing for you, but I promise you you’re safe. Jessica got you out. You’re free, Matt.”

            Jessica? Jessica Jones? He shook his head, biting his lip again and wishing he could think straight. Everything was swirling. The fog wasn’t as thick as usual but it still hung over him like another layer of blindness. Jessica Jones was dead. They were all dead. They died at Midland Circle, same as him. Same as _her._ He could remember that much.

Couldn’t he?

            “Matt, talk to me. Please. Just say something. Anything.”

            Not knowing why, he opened his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he intended to say but the sound that left his lips didn’t resemble words anyway so he supposed it didn’t matter. It was more of a rasping whimper than anything coherent.

            “Shit, sorry, I didn’t think. Hold on a sec.”

            The warmth of her hand vanished, then her weight from the mattress. In its place icy fangs bit into his skin. That couldn’t be it. There must be more still to come.

            A couple of footsteps, not going far. A cracking squeak that was familiar but he couldn’t remember why. Then footsteps again and too quickly she was back on the bed, hand on his arm, pressing something against his hand. He gasped and flinched backwards.

            “Sorry,” she said quickly, a flicker of anger flaring momentarily in her voice before it cooled. “I’m sorry. Here. Drink. Take these, they’ll help with the pain.”

            Experience shouted at him not to move, but he could _smell_ it _._ The trembling returned as he slowly unclenched one fist and the Claire that wasn’t Claire gently pushed the plastic bottle, heavy with sweet, untainted water, into his palm. He ignored the two tablets she pressed into his other hand, letting them fall unwanted into the crumpled sheets.

            The first sip was tentative. Careful. But before he’d swallowed all caution was washed away by the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He gulped the water down in drowning swallows, relishing the untainted flavour. There was no bite of zinc or cloying sweetness, not even a warning aftertaste as he paused reluctantly to breathe. The not-Claire said something beside him but the words were lost to his thirst. The bottle buckled noisily as he sucked the last drops onto his eager tongue.

            Suddenly exhausted, he slumped back against the headboard, his legs flopping out of their defensive posture without him intending them to.

            The not-Claire laid her hand on his bandaged shoulder, her fingertips squeezing gently. It didn’t hurt.

            “Do you want something to eat, Matt? Are you hungry?”

            He turned his head towards her again, frowning now in earnest. This made no sense. The water the phantoms gave him was always tainted, always made him pass out or burned like acid in his gut. None of them had ever offered food.

            “Do you understand, Matt?”

            The phantoms had never sounded confused or scared before either. Hoping it wasn’t as stupid a move as it felt, Matt forced his neglected tongue to speak.

            “Is this real?” The words seemed to cut his throat as they rasped their way free, the sensation of formed air rolling past his lips so different from the wild screams he had become used to.

            The not-Claire sniffed. “Yeah. Yeah, Matt, this is real.”

            His eyes narrowed. No one had ever answered him before. This was different. They must have found a new drug, or maybe he was in the tank after all and this was just another, weirdly realistic daydream. Just his tortured mind creating a momentary escape. It had happened before. Yes. That must be it.

            “It’s _real,_ Matt,” the dream-Claire said, her voice as sincere and firm as his most vivid memories. Her hand left his shoulder and curled around his bandaged wrist. He tensed, automatically sucking in a breath in anticipation of another scream. It was always worse when he had no air for a scream. It would just burn in his lungs like fire.

            The dream-Claire pulled. Not like the other hands, squeezing and yanking and twisting him into position. It was more like a ... suggestion. Swallowing another wave of quiet panic, he let her take his hand and lie it flat against her chest.

            Right over her heart.

            Everything shattered. Every iota of his ruined senses zeroed in on the steady pulse beating against his palm with a level of concentration he hadn’t thought he could still muster. There was no faking the tiny waves of warmth radiating from her skin. No recreating the familiar beat of a heart he had once been tuned to, had once plucked from the thrum of the city, from the wails of the hospital. Not even his memory could offer such a perfect, concrete impression of pace and pressure and heat and the ineffable _feel_ of a heartbeat, and this. This was unique as her voice. This was Claire Temple.

            “I’m real, Matt. This is real.”

            “C-Claire –!” The single word was little more than a trembling gasp, but she heard him. Faster than he could understand he was in her arms, his head tucked under her chin, his ear against the hollow of her collarbone, listening to the steady, too-fast pounding of a real heartbeat. Her arms were harbours around him, somehow keeping all the other agonies at bay as low, strangled sobs shook through him. Her scent filled his mind and it was exactly the blend of sandalwood and tulips that he had almost forgotten, and he knew that if he were whole he would smell the ghost of medical supplies, the shampoo she hadn’t changed since she’d first saved his life, the hint of coffee that always chased her every breath.

            Matt wrapped his shaking arms around her slender torso and gathered handfuls of her shirt in his fists, terrified the spell would break any second and she would vanish and he’d be back in that cage. One hand ran through his overlong hair with mesmerising rhythm, the other strong and steady on his back, just between two of the biggest whip scars. A steady melody of reassurances spun through the air around him, Claire’s beautiful voice reaching right through to his crying heart and soothing it with forgotten kindness. Soft kisses pressed into his hair like slow-motion raindrops. Something that had been immovably rigid inside his chest gradually and finally relaxed as an alien thought looped through his mind.

_Maybe, if Claire’s here, maybe ... I’m safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of more feelsy scenes so this is gonna be longer than 11 chapters. Be ye warned: things for Matt are gonna get worse before they get better. *cackles evilly*
> 
>  
> 
> Personal sidenote:
> 
> The comments you guys are leaving on this fic are honestly meaning the world to me. I just spent four months in a creative vacuum, a solitary writer bubble, while getting the first draft of my first book done. As much as I love the book, it's like an antisocial cat using my self-esteem as a scratching post while I try to bribe it into loving me. Part of the reason I decided to write this weird little fic was to get a confidence boost and I am feeling very boosted. Thank you so much reader friends! I send you hugs.


	8. Overwhelmed

            Matt tried desperately to cling to the dream. The more he felt himself wake, the tighter he held on to the warm feeling of comfort. It kept the pain and fear away for entire minutes, wrapped around him like an insulating blanket. It had been such a good dream.

            But the cold always finds its way in. And soon they would start again.

            He kept as still as possible, determined not to draw attention to himself. He couldn’t hear anyone in the room with him, but he knew from experience that that meant little. Besides, he was half deaf from the terror room. Instead of trying to map the space with his paltry senses, he focused his attention on keeping his breathing regular and his heartbeat under a gallop.

            Then his eyes snapped open in a frown. A very confused frown. He couldn’t hear anyone screaming.

His fingers probed experimentally at the thing he was lying on. That was no cage. That was a bed.

            Holy shit.

            He inhaled deeply through his nose and caught the distinct, if faded, scent of sandalwood.

            Holy _shit._

            Sitting up slowly, grimacing as the many aches shouted their disgust at him, he pushed his wavering awareness as far out as he could. Silk. Hardwood. A light, almost-floral scent that rang the vaguest bell.

            No chemicals. No sterility. No half-masked stench of sweat and fear.

            This wasn’t Hell.

            It wasn’t a dream.

            _Thank you, God. Thank you._

            A shuddering half-laugh shocked past his quirking lips. He was free. He was ... safe. He had fallen asleep last night, not in fear and pain, but in Claire’s arms, with another person’s heartbeat beating against his cheek.

            Tears scurried over his cheeks and into the wild scruff of his beard. He let them. A long-forgotten stillness filled his chest, banishing the aches and internal tremors to the horizon. Warmth glowed delicately, fragilely, around his heart. It took him a long moment to remember the word for the feeling. Happy.

            A soft knock interrupted his quiet revelation.

            “Come in,” he croaked, quickly wiping his cheeks dry. The door swung open with a near silent _swush_ that almost made him smile. It was such a faint sound, but he’d heard it. Given the alien light shining in his chest, he took that as a good sign.

            “Hey.” It was Claire. A real smile stole his lips. “How you feeling?”

            He shrugged one shoulder. “Dazed.” God, he sounded awful. In fairness, he felt awful too. Probably looked worse. Weirdly, that made his smile widen a bit. He couldn’t remember the last time someone told him he looked like shit.

            “I bet that’s an understatement. You look like shit.”

            He was positively beaming now. Judging by the smile in her voice, so was Claire.

            “Really?” he rasped sarcastically, his ruined voice cracking. “Feel amazing.”

            Her chuckle was his new favourite song. God, he hadn’t heard anything like that in so long. All the laughter he’d heard in the last ... however long, was at him. It would rise and fall with the intensity of his screams, the violence of his shakes.

            The bed sagged as she sat beside him. A wash of warmth and the dazzling scent of tea rolled over him. Saliva welled in his mouth.

            “Thirsty?”

            Hesitant, he nodded, half-reaching one hand out for the mug he could hardly sense. Claire guided his burned fingers to the handle and the warmth rushed into him. The first sip was like drinking liquid heaven. All tension drained from his shoulders in a rushed exodus and he let his head flop back against the wall.

            “Good?”

            He nodded weakly, holding the mug tighter in both hands against his chest.

            “Bet it’s been a while since you had something hot, huh?”

            He nodded again but said nothing. She didn’t need to know the details of, well, any of it.

            She let him drink in the warm silence of her presence. He sipped slowly, burying each wince as the heat slid down his sandpaper throat. Before he was halfway through he felt the tremors getting worse and settled the mug in his lap so Claire wouldn’t notice.

            “How much do you remember of yesterday?” she asked timidly a while later.

            “Not much.” He cleared his throat, trying to keep it level. “Don’t –” he coughed – “remember things so well.”

            Her hands squeezed his forearm. “That’s understandable, considering all the crap they pumped into you and ... everything.”

            Matt dipped his chin, hiding his face. Why did she sound so resigned? And with an undercurrent of rage as though she _knew_ what they –

            “The others are out working on your case. I don’t know if you knew they were there last night, I told them to give you some space while you adjusted.”

            He blinked, raising his confused face to her. “O-others?” He took another shaky sip of tea, his throat snapping like drywood. “Case?”

            “Yeah. Well, Trish is at work but she’s using the ‘weapon of the people’ – don’t ask me how, it was _way_ too early in the morning for me to take it in. Jessica’s gone to that Hogarth nightmare to see what we’ll need legally, and Luke and Danny were gonna look in to ID-ing the other victims, trying to track the sales, y’know. After they finish up a quick job.” A note of pride entered her voice. “They set up this Heroes for Hire thing in Harlem, it’s doing really ... well,” she trailed off, one hand moving to rest on his wrist. “Matt? What’s wrong?”

            He tried to hide his face again while he got control but she laid her other hand on his cheek in silent encouragement and the contact was so casual, so tender, the tears finally spilled over. Not many, only the scouts. But it was enough to shatter his thin veneer of composure. The shaking got worse, worse enough that Claire eased the mug out of his hands before he slopped tea all over himself. There must be a bedside table beside him because he heard the muted _thock_ of ceramic on wood. Trying to deepen his breathing and get a grip on himself, he curled his fingers around her wrist, pressing two raw fingertips into her pulse.

            Like yesterday, it was slightly elevated. But it was as steady as a bomb shelter. She wasn’t lying.

            “Matt, what is it? Talk to me, please.”

            Managing to suck in a somewhat steadying breath, he bullied his throat into working, wishing he knew how to translate the hot pressure in his heart into words.

            “I ... don’t ... understand.”

            It was a laughable understatement. Here she was – Claire, his own personal saviour, the closest thing to a living angel he’d ever known – sitting beside him and stroking a thumb along the bandages on his wrist as though all she’d done was patch him up after another rough night. As though he was still Daredevil. As though he was still Matt Murdock.

            As though he mattered.

            “What do you mean?”

            He shook his head, suddenly far too exhausted to give words to the distinctly unphysical pain in his chest. Knowing he had to say something, he tried explaining a lesser-aching quandary.

            “Can’t think straight.” It was little more than a sigh.

            “Hey,” she said softly. “You’re gonna be okay, Matt. Danny got me everything I need to treat you right here. We’ll get you back on your feet. Starting with these.”

            She took his hand and pushed two tablets firmly into his palm. “Take them,” she said in a tone that allowed zero resistance.

            “What are they?” he croaked, buying time.

            “Just aspirin. But you need it. Really, Matt.” His face mustn’t have been as impassive as she thought because she quickly added, “It’s not going to mess with you, I promise. You’ve taken them a hundred times. Catholic morphine, come on.”

            He tried to smile at that. It didn’t work. Her gaze burned into him and the mug reappeared by his hand. Reluctantly, he took it, curling his fingers around her wrist with his other hand.

            “Just aspirin?” He felt ashamed just asking.

            “Just aspirin.” Her pulse didn’t flicker.

            Hoping this was all real, he knocked back the two pills and drank a few more gulps of the lukewarm tea.

            “Good,” Claire said, a smile clear in her voice. “Now let’s see if we can get you shaved ‘cause, honestly? That beard does nothing for you.”

            Matt tried to smile but the clank and whine of a lock opening made him stiffen instantly, ears straining, fists curling. Claire’s hands were on his bandaged shoulder in seconds, silently calling him back from hell.

            “It’s okay, it’s just Trish. She’s got fancy locks, that’s all.”

            Two voices floated through the corridors and Matt nodded, swallowing his desperate desire to run.

            “– you expect, Jess? She’s never been the type to do something out of the goodness of her heart, of course she was gonna make a thing of it.” Trish Walker. She sounded far more agitated than she did on the radio.

            “My _point_ ,” came the unmistakably irritable voice of Jessica Jones, “is she should damn well know by now to just _tell me what I need to know._ ”

            “You say that like she should trust you. Jess, Hogarth only trusts other sharks. Come on. You’ve _met_ her.”

            “Fair – hey, where’s –”

            “In here,” Claire called, one hand still resting reassuringly on Matt’s none too stable shoulder.

            The door opened. The almost-floral scent intensified. Juniper. And perfume. With it came a familiar blend of leather, stale whiskey, and the barest touch of lavender.

            “Holy shit – you’re up.”

            Reaching for Claire’s hand and pressing his aching fingertips into her pulse, he nodded. Tried not to flinch away as two sets of footsteps pounded closer over the hard floor. Claire’s weight left the mattress as she stood, but she kept one hand on his shoulder.

            “How, eh, how are you feeling?” He turned his face in the direction of Trish Walker’s voice and hoped his smile worked.

            “O-okay,” he rasped, a dry cough following the word. Trying to keep his hands from shaking he remembered this was her apartment. Possibly her bed. “Th-thank you, uh, Trish.” He swallowed hard, wishing he sounded less pathetic. “Really.”

            The smile shaped her words as she replied. “You’re welcome, Matt. It’s the least I could do, I mean –” he heard the faint slap that might be a hand on a leather-clad shoulder – “you saved Jess. And, y’know, New York. It’s the least I could do.”

            He wished he could feel Claire’s pulse. Things weren’t making sense again.

            Claire broke the awkward pause.

            “Hey, Trish, you mind if I make this guy something to eat?”

            “Oh yeah, sure.” A beat in which Matt assumed someone’s face said more. “Let me show you.”

            He looked up to her as her weight shifted, stifling the panic of her imminent departure.

            “Thank you, Claire,” he whispered, voice still ragged.

            Claire huffed and swooped down too quickly and he flinched away. She pretended not to notice and kissed his forehead, her lips pressing into his skin for barely a second but somehow banishing a wave of fear.

            “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear that again.”

            With a final squeeze of his shoulder, Claire left, following Trish’s clacking footsteps. The door clicked shut after them. The silence became _very_ awkward. What the hell do you say to the woman you thought your selfishness had killed? Who also apparently saved you from hell?

            “So how are you feeling really?” she asked abruptly, an odd bite to her tone. She was angry at him. Well, that made sense.

            “Fine.”

            “Bullshit.”

            He almost managed a chuckle. Shrugged his less painful shoulder.

            “And you?” A stinging warmth was trying to spread through his chest, but he kept it in check. Just because Claire was real didn’t necessarily mean she was.

            A whisper of fabric, a hint of smoky movement and no response made him think she shrugged too. God, did he miss being able to see.

            “Good to see you awake. And, y’know, alive and all.”

            He frowned. “How lon- how long’ve –” he coughed and tried again, but she beat him to it.

            “You were in IGH for just under four months, and you’ve been dead to the world in Trish’s bed for three days.”

            There was a beat of silence.

            “Sorry, bad phrasing.”

            “Huh?”

            “‘Dead to the world’?” she quoted herself, her boots scuffing slightly against the floor as she shifted her weight. His thoroughly nonplussed expression prompted her to clarify. “Since, technically, you _are_ dead to the world? I mean, we had to get you declared legally dead and shit.”

            It took him a moment to process this. He couldn’t, so he ignored it.

            “Three days?”

            “Yep. And two seizures.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah.”

            Certain he didn’t want to know the answer, he made himself ask, “How long since, uh, since –”

            “Midland Circle? Six months.”

            “What?” Barely a breath. He slumped against the headboard.

            “Yeah.”

            It didn’t compute. He was too tired for it to make sense. Too tired for everything. The fog gnawing on his mind had changed into something toothier. A headache was starting to pound at his temples.

            Foggy. Karen.

            _Six months._

            Trying (and failing) to keep his voice steady, he tried to find a way to ask about _her,_ without having to say it.

            “A-and the – the Hand?”

            “No peep from them since. Bakuto’s for sure dead. Colleen lopped his head off, ‘cause that’s something that happens in her world.” The faint squeak of her boots as she stepped closer. “The Mura-hoody guy and the old lady were in the pit when ... so we assumed they were dead, too. Although, if you got out ... Did you, eh, hear them die?”

            He shook his head. This was too much.

            The bed dipped as Jessica sat down by his thigh. Her scent and heat curled around him and flashes of half-forgotten memory danced through his mind. A stolen scarf. An old piano with a flat D#. Her elbow brushing against his as they walked through the cold. Irritated amusement and a sense of quiet awe.

            “We’re pretty sure the Hand is finished, though. Rand’s been going after whatever was left of them since you – well. Suffice it to say he took your last words to heart. I swear, if Luke had hair it’d all be grey by now, he’s been trying so hard to keep that kid breathing.”

            _Your last words. Protect my city. Her voice._

            This was too much.

            He reached out to her, his shaking hand timid, and found her hand. She let him lay his fingers over the back of it. He inched his little finger far enough to press into the side of her wrist, just enough to feel the unique rhythm that matched the expressions he could no longer feel or hear. Knowing how pathetic he was about to sound, wavering rasp and all, he had to ask. This wasn’t making sense.

            “Jess ... i-is this real?”

            There was a moment of tense silence. Then she twisted her hand around and used the other to press his fingers firmly into her pulse.

            “Yes. This is real.”

            Hoping the tears weren’t visible in his eyes, he nodded to their joined hands, letting out a slow and unsteady breath. Everything was wrong. The aches he’d been trying to ignore were growling discordantly, his chest was being compressed from all sides, his heart was on fire and he couldn’t. Goddamn. _Think_.

            Jessica sighed exasperatedly.

           “Fuck it.”

           Then she pulled him into a tight hug.


	9. Heavy Loads

            The guy was in bad shape. Obviously. To think he’d magically be okay and his old self straight away after going through all of _that_ for four months was just plain stupid. Jessica knew that. It was gonna take him weeks to fully recover, god only knows how long to heal his mental state. She knew this. It was obvious. Expected.

            So why did she feel like she was suffocating, watching him fumble his way through shaving? It’s not like she’d known him that well before. Not like they’d been super close and had helped each other through a ton of serious shit, because really, they hadn’t. Not especially. Sure, the whole Hand nightmare had bonded them, and yeah, she had decided to trust him and yeah, he was familiar in ways no stranger ever had been, and sure, knowing each other’s past shit did speed things up a bit since he was never a dick about it. And granted, feeling his trembling, timid fingertips press into the pulse point on her wrist with an expression of painful joy as he realised she was real may have slightly broken her heart. The point was she understood him. And she knew he understood her.

            They’d bonded, okay? Shut up.

            It was just hard seeing a guy who could flip through a hallway of bad guys like an anime character and hear gunshots forty stories up struggle to pull a razor smoothly over his cheek. Especially when you knew part of the reason he kept trembling had nothing to do with the drugs that were clearly starting to give him withdrawals.

            The razor clattered into the sink again, splashing into the pool of hairy water and Matt hung his head, eyes closed and sigh flopping out of him like it was too exhausted to float out normally. His hands were curling around the sink, knuckles as white as the bandages.

            “Sorry,” he mumbled through the shaving foam, his voice thick with carefully contained misery and frustration. The high stool she’d pilfered from Trish’s breakfast counter thing squeaked as he shifted his weight. He could barely take his own weight on his ruined feet.

            “Hey, you’re better at it than me,” she said, keeping her tone light and casual. She could almost feel the disgust rolling off him. You didn’t need to know Matt Murdock for long to know he was a prideful guy. An independent guy. She guessed that even with the fancy senses, with the way the world treated people with disabilities, being able to survive on his own was a bigger thing for him than most. Hell, she couldn’t function without her own space – just crashing on Trish’s couch while they waited for IGH to stop looking for them was driving her insane. And she didn’t need help walking.

            He gave a sort of snort that was probably meant to be interpreted as humour. He fumbled for the razor and gave it a shake, raising it once more to his face.

            Jess looked away, studying her shoes because it honestly hurt to see his hand shake so much he couldn’t perform this simple task. He looked moments away from a meltdown, one Jessica expected would result in dented drywall.

            The razor slipped from his grasp again. “God _damnit!”_

            Jess waited, back against the wall, eyes on the tiles as he breathed through a rush of rage and pain and a whole lot of other shit she really didn’t want to think about. Even his breathing sounded miserable.

            “Could you, uh, could you give me a minute?” He sounded like someone had taken his voice out, stomped on it with cleats, set it on fire, wrapped it in barbed wire and then shoved it back down his throat.

            Ugh, she had really been hoping he wouldn’t ask that.

            “Sorry, no. Can’t leave you alone. Claire’s orders.”

            He turned his scowl in her direction. “Jess, please.” He tried to brighten his expression and the attempt made her heart hurt. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

            She bit her lip, buying time.

            “Jess. You have super-strength. You could literally pick her up. I think you can take her.”

            She snorted. “You think super-strength would be any use against Temple? Sorry, man, I don’t have a death wish. That woman scares me.”

            He chuckled. An actual chuckle. His shoulders were relaxing and everything.

            _Well,_ she thought to herself in surprise, _not bad, Jones._

            “Here, what if I did it?” she offered before she could think too much about it.

            “Fought Claire? I take it back, she’d destroy you.” He was making jokes! Fucking _how?_

            “No, dumbass, I meant what if I did the shaving.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah, _oh._ Come on, the others will be back soon and the sooner Trish gets her bed back the better. She’s been really crabby. Not that she isn’t happy to help,” she added quickly, mentally kicking herself for making his eyebrows do that ‘I’m being a burden’ thing she was getting uncomfortably familiar with. “She just misses personal space, you know.”

            He nodded, all traces of humour gone.

            _Nice one, Jones. Asshole._

            Sitting back slightly on the stool, but still keeping one hand on the sink ‘cause apparently his balance was gone to shit, he gestured her over. Determined to make this as un-embarrassing and brief as possible, Jess picked up the razor and shook the excess water free.

            “Okay, just, don’t move. I might accidentally kill you.”

            He snorted. Well, he exhaled with slightly more force than normal, but she chose to interpret it as appreciative humour.

            _Okay, enough stalling._

            She put a hand on his head to angle it and tried not to notice how he suppressed a wince as his throat was exposed. Being gentler than she’d ever been with her legs, and keeping every movement nice and slow, she drew the tiny blades across his skin. Wow, the cream really got in the way. She just used soapy water ‘cause she was a cheap shit. A quick rinse, then repeat.

            Matt kept quiet and creepily still as she continued, his every breath a focused exercise in forced calm. Whenever she touched the razor to his skin he’d wince, the tension that built up in his muscles whenever she dunked it in the sink shuddering through him.

            “You okay there, Flinchie?”

            The corner of his mouth twitched and he gave a nod that was more of an expression. “Fine. Just, uh, tense.”

            “No shit. You know I was joking before, right? I’m actually really good at not killing people.”

            The twitch was more smile-like this time but he said nothing.

            “You want me to stop?”

            “No, sorry. I just ... can’t hear it coming.”

            She released her hand from his hair, staring into the unfocused chocolate eyes in disbelief.

            “Dude. You can hear neon.”

            “Could. Past tense.”

            “What?”

            She could see his face shutting down. Walls wavering up. You’d think the half-faceful of shaving cream would soften the expression. It didn’t.

            He took a deep breath which caught slightly in his throat. Looking resigned and haggard, he explained.

            “They did something. I think when they realised just how much I heard.” He shrugged his unbandaged shoulder. “I was making things difficult for them. So they stopped me.”

            _Oh shit._ “Stopped you how?” _Don’t make him say it, you asshole! You know how!_

            His face was a mask. Completely impassive. Emotionless.

            To the untrained eye.

            “Does it matter?”

            “Hell yes.”

            “There was a procedure. Don’t remember much of it. Anaesthetic. And drugs. And, um, there was this thing they’d do.”

            It was painful watching him find the words.

            “Overstimulation I guess.”

            She hadn’t punched enough assholes on her way out of there. God, he looked ... broken.

            “I think I know what you mean. About the last part at least. That’s what they were doing to you when I found you.”

            “You saw that?”

            Swallowing hard, she nodded. Then remembered and said, “Yeah. Looked rough.”

            “Yeah. A bit.”

            Needing some distraction from the almost palpable awkwardness, Jess picked up the razor again, putting a hand on his shoulder, half in comfort, half in warning.

            “So the super-hearing’s gone, huh?”

            He flinched as the razor made contact but gave a tiny nod. He raised one hand and kept his fingers pressed gently against her forearm, following her movements.

            “It’s all gone, I think.”

            “How d’you mean?”

            His sightless eyes stared right through her.

            “Can’t hear like I used to. It’s like being half deaf. But everything else is off too.” He spoke quickly, as though speed would make the words easier to stomach. “Smell, taste. All weak. Can’t feel things the way I used to.” He hesitated, his mask cracking as his eyebrows twitched upwards. “It’s like being really blind. Completely blind.”

            “Holy shit.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Is it permanent?”

            He shrugged, his gaze dropping.

            “Claire will know,” she said quickly, hoping it was encouraging.

            "Yeah. Hope so.” If it was possible to sound negatively hopeful, he was managing it.

            The razor mowed a few more inches of beard in silence. He was looking less like a hobo every second. And more like a lost and broken shadow of the hero she had known.

            “Matt.”

            “Mm?”

            “I need to tell you something.” He waited. “You’re not gonna like it.”

            “Okay ...?”

            “When I was in IGH I stole your file. It had details of everything they did you, all their data. Even videos.” Shit, he was going pale. _Finish it, Jones._ “We watched it. All of it. I know the procedure you mean and Claire said when she saw it that it might have side effects. That you might be ... disorientated.” She said all this very quickly. As though that would help.

            There was a long and uncomfortable pause.

            “Who’s ‘we’?”

            “Everyone but Danny. But I think Luke filled him on the general level of awful shit while you were out.”

            Swallowing hard, he nodded slowly.

            “Why.” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.

            “Look, we needed info,” she snapped, defensive. “You were having seizures and we didn’t know why, so we needed in.”

            “Why watch everything?” Anger gave his rasping voice the tiniest tremor. “Why not stop once you found the drugs?”

            “Because,” she began hotly, not entirely sure how to finish. She hesitated. His brow twitched upwards like some teacher daring a kid to keep digging and she snapped, anger releasing the truth. “Because we all thought you were worm food and suddenly you’re alive, all beat to shit and unconscious in the next room. We wanted answers and frankly, Murdock, you’re not exactly an open book. We needed to know to help. Claire had to figure out how to undo some of the shit they did to you and not much of it left a mark, alright?”

            She took an angry breath, scowling as she rinsed the razor and avoiding his pointless eyes, his fingers still ghosting over her arm.

            “Look,” she said, calmer now. “I know it sucks. But it was necessary. Besides,” she added, stubbornness overriding careful detachment. “We’re a team. We’re in this together. That means we share the shit. ‘Specially when it’s this ... shit.”

            She did her best to ignore him as she finished with the razor. Blind eyes or not they were expressive and she wasn’t about to deal with that right now. After a moment, she noticed his shoulders had relaxed somewhat. Hers hadn’t. She dunked the razor in the sink and stepped back.

            “You’re done.”

            He caught her hand as she pulled away.

            “Jess,” he said softly. Or as softly as he could with a desert for a throat. “Thank you.”

            “Don’t mention it.”

            “No,” he said earnestly, his grip tightening slightly. “For getting me out of there. For ... taking some of the shit. Really. I wouldn’t ... I was running out of time in there. You saved my life. Thank you.”

            She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek and frowning. The now familiar slimy thing squirmed uncomfortably in her gut, making her feel sick.

            “You’d have done the same for me.”

            He gave a soft half-chuckle. “I’m not as strong as you, Jess. But yeah,” he added, sincerity smoothing his hoarse voice. “I would.”

            She attempted a smile and was glad he couldn’t see it.

            _You’re a piece of shit, Jones._


	10. Déjà Vu

            Fancy and expensive though it was, Trish’s apartment really wasn’t built for housing more than three antisocial assholes at a time. And Danny counted as two. Luckily the atmosphere wasn’t in any way stressful or tense, since they all led charmed, normal lives where their biggest concern was the Starbucks guy messing up their orders.

            If only.

            Danny had finally tracked down everything Claire needed to help Matt. Just in time too. He’d had another two seizures. That made four in less than a week. That, plus looming withdrawals that messed with his already messed-with head, plus his memory issues, plus his catalogue of badly healed injuries and other, subtler pains, _plus_ the fact that he couldn’t get through a conversation without needing to feel someone’s heartbeat to reassure himself that all this was actually happening, meant they were all beyond eager to get the guy a break.

            The bad news was, having watched the torture vids, they were all also acutely aware how painful that break would likely be.

            They did everything they could to make Trish’s spare room – soon to be Matt’s room – as little like a hospital as possible. Not an easy task, considering the IV poll, heart monitor, whatever the blood checker thing was called, and an oxygen machine. But burning some incense would help, right?

            This was gonna be shit.

            “You ready?” she asked as she sauntered into Trish’s room. He was sitting on the side edge of the bed, looking more like himself after the shave. But his eyes were still marred by a darkness she didn’t expect would brighten any time soon. And he was fidgeting with the edges of the bandage wrapped around his left hand.

            He nodded once, a single jerky bob that directly contradicted its sentiment. Being the kind, caring person she was she tactfully pretended not to notice.

            “You look like shit.”

            Another single-shoulder shrug. “It’s my best look,” he joked, attempting a grin and failing miserably.

            Taking her place beside him she reached for his arm, careful not to startle him. She almost managed it.

            “Let’s go, Devil Boy.”

            The old nickname won a short-lived smile as he took her elbow and pulled himself to his feet, his expression quickly returning to one of barely controlled anxiety. Wincing as his battered feet took his weight, he shuffled forward, back hunched and shoulders rigid. Jessica walked with him, taking one slow step for every three of his. He made it about two feet past the end of the bed when he stopped, breathing deeply, his free hand wrapped around his abdomen.

            “You okay?”

            He nodded, eyes fixed dead ahead as though he could see the door still feet away. One tiny step later he shook his head.

            Without another word she pulled his arm over her shoulders and took most of his weight. He gasped as his back was forced to straighten, the long days spent in cages and probably the chestful of broken ribs demanding kinder treatment and he sagged beside her. She waited for him to catch his breath, her arm steady over the scars on his back. With a curt nod, he started forward again.

            By the time they crossed the threshold, he was panting, his forehead glistening with sweat through the overlong fringe that fell to his determined eyes. He was almost doubled over, his jaw clenched and his entire frame trembling. When he finally stopped, level with the couch (a personal best), he didn’t look at her.

            “Done?” she asked casually. He nodded, trying to hide how pissed off he was with himself. How disgusted.

            She swept an arm down and scooped up his legs, holding him securely against her chest.

            “Come on, Princess,” she said, biting back a smile. She couldn’t resist.

            A flicker of amusement ghosted past his face. “You suck, Jones.”

            “Yeah,” she agreed happily. “But I’m pretty, so, y’know. It works.”

            That earned her another almost-chuckle. She carried him the rest of the way to the spare room, her boots thumping monotonously against the hardwood with every step. Matt was concentrating on his breathing, clearly trying to calm himself down. Judging by the way his spine shivered against her arm, he wasn’t doing too well.

            Claire and Luke were already in the room finishing the set up so she stopped just outside and set him back on his feet. He kept his arm around her shoulders and gave her a grateful squeeze as they walked the last few feet together.

            “Claire how does this –” Luke began, holding up a length of plastic tubing and frowning at what Jessica assumed was either the oxygen machine or a bomb.

            “Twist and click. Hey Matt, you ready for this?”

            His mumbled affirmative was deeply unconvincing.

            “Where’s Rand?” Jessica asked as she helped Matt up onto the bed. He sighed with relief as the weight left his feet. “Thought he wanted to be here for this.”

            “On is way,” Luke said, standing up from attaching the tube. “Class ran late.”

            “Hope you told him about the door,” Jess muttered darkly. Trish’s home security really got in the way of people dropping ‘round to watch their friends get traumatized.

            “Well we’re not waiting for him,” Claire said briskly, whirling through the room in a flurry of efficiency, snatching syringes and checking the IV swinging from its poll. “I want this over with as fast as possible. Matt? Lie down, we’ll get started. Luke, get that centrifuge ready.”

            “How?”

            “Flick the ON switch.”

            “Oh.”

            Jessica stayed by the bed, mostly out of the way. Matt’s breathing was getting faster, his ribs standing out in sharp relief with every inhale. The bruising covering his left side looked even worse under the extra lights Claire had brought in. Not to mention he looked a lot paler. She laid a hand on his upper arm, squeezing gently. He nodded once at the contact, blinking fast at the ceiling.

            “Okay, Matt? I’m gonna start with taking some blood, okay? Then I need to place an IV. It’s mostly saline,” she said quickly, taking his hand. “A few milligrams of methadone, to help with the withdrawals. We need to flush out your system, okay? And I want you on oxygen while I’m doing all this. Your O2 levels are low, but it’s just air, alright?”

            Matt was nodding spasmodically, his face a tense mask of false calm.

            “I’ll need an hour, okay? One hour.”

            His knuckles were white around Claire’s hand. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, doing nothing to ease the growing fear entering his eyes. Claire kissed the back of his hand, rubbing his arm reassuringly. Then she released him and turned to the plate of needles on the makeshift counter which was really an ironing board. Jessica exchanged a nauseous glance with Luke as Matt trembled beneath her hand.

            “Okay, first things first.” Claire snapped on a pair of blue rubber gloves, the sound making Matt flinch violently. Jess squeezed his arm as he struggled to keep his breathing even.

            Claire turned back to the bed with a syringe with a port jutting out of it and three slim vials.

            “Jess will you get the mask on? Matt, you’re gonna feel a little prick now, okay? Just taking blood. Less than two minutes.”

            Jessica snatched the oxygen mask from its machine, the thin tube swinging as she fiddled with the straps. Matt’s hands were fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as Claire pushed the needle into his vein. Jess quickly looked away, focusing on the moulded plastic in her hands. Figuring out the straps, she held them back and placed the mask carefully over Matt’s nose and mouth. He flinched again, gasping in shock. Shit. Should have warned him. She slipped the straps over his head and pulled them tight.

            “Luke, get me the IV line.” Claire was switching out the full vials with empty ones with the practiced speed of a true ER veteran. She took the length of translucent tubing from Luke and affixed the port to the needle as soon as the last vial was filled with the deep burgundy of Matt’s blood. “You’re doing great, Matt. Just keep breathing. Deep breaths.”

            The mask flashed in the harsh light as he nodded, the movement jerky. His breathing didn’t get any steadier.

Claire talked him through everything she did, never touching him without warning him first and using her and Luke as extra hands whenever she needed them. It did little to quiet the heart monitor’s incessant beeping. By the time Danny joined them, out of breath and dumping his backpack in the corner, Jessica was about ready to jump out the window. She couldn’t take this. If Matt wasn’t about to snap then she was. Claire was used to this. Years in Metro-General had desensitized her to terrified patients, so maybe she wasn’t seeing just how badly Matt was shaking. Maybe Luke was too focused on helping to hear how ragged his panting breaths were.

            “Matt. Matt?” Danny was trying to be helpful. “You need to centre yourself. Remember your chi breathing –”

            “Danny, he wasn’t raised by monks he doesn’t have _chi breathing_ –” Jessica snapped.

            “Everyone has chi breathing, it just means deep, focused bre–”

            “Does he _look_ focused right now?”

            “No, that’s my point, he needs to –”

            “Shut up, Danny.”

            “I’m trying to help!”

            “You’re _failing_ to help!”

            “Both of you shut up!” Claire snapped, throwing Jessica a scowl.

            “ _He’s_ the little shi –”

            “Jones, take a walk.” Luke put a hand on her arm, urging her out of the room. Sighing heavily, she stalked out, privately grateful for the excuse to put distance between her and the strangled groans coming out of Matt.

            Once in the hall, Luke rounded on her. Sensing an imminent attack, she decided to engage her best defence.

            “Danny is just being a distracting asshole, he’s –”

            “He is trying to _help,_ ” Luke countered, his voice as smooth and calm as ever. How did he do that? Their friend was in there freaking out over heart monitors and oxygen masks, the freaking _Devil of Hell’s Kitchen_ was having a coronary over having his goddamn _ears_ checked and Mr Bulletproof over here was calm as fucking ever. What, had he already forgotten all those video files? Did he not get what this was doing to Matt?

            “He’s getting in Matt’s head,” she griped.

            “No, he’s getting in _your_ head,” he said with an air of an overly patient parent waiting for their two-year-old to admit spoons weren’t food. “Look Jessica, this is all kinds of messed up, but you having another pissing contest with Danny is not going to help anyone. Least of all Matt.”

            Unable to think of a witty comeback, she settled with injecting more power into her scowl.

            “It’s not easy for any of us, Jess. We’re all feeling it.”

            _No you’re not. You’re not the reason they got him._

            She opened her mouth to answer his irritatingly concerned expression with something cutting, but a shout from Claire cut her off.

            “Guys! I need you in here!”

            As one, they ran back in. Danny was trying to keep a violently thrashing Matt on the bed while Claire held a hand to a cut on her temple and the heart monitor let out a staccato scream. Not pausing to take in any more of the scene, they rushed in, Jessica helping Danny with Matt’s arms while Luke grabbed his legs.

            “Are you okay?” he shot at Claire, throwing her a worried glance.

            “Fine, just hold him.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over Matt’s growls.

            “It’s okay Matt,” Danny was saying in a tone too loud to be soothing. “It’s just us! It’s us, you’re okay, we’re not gonna hurt you!”

            “Shut up, Rand, he can’t hear you,” Jessica growled, trying to wrestle Matt to lie flat without breaking anything. Like his bones.

            “Should you give him something to knock him out?” Luke growled, ignoring the other two as he pressed Matt’s shins into the bed.

            The end of his sentence was drowned out by a long, drawn out, strangled yell wrenching itself free of Matt’s clenched teeth. He shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge the mask, his overlong hair flying. Claire shouted an answer, but Jessica didn’t hear it. Matt’s sightless eyes were staring right into her face, almost directly into her eyes. Her stomach flipped horribly, nausea churning as her heart quivered.

            Now she knew how she’d looked in those first weeks after she escaped Kilgrave. Suddenly Trish’s overbearing concern and relentless campaign for her to see a shrink made sense. He looked like he was being burned alive. Drowned. Abandoned in the dark with the walls closing in until he was crushed and suffocated.

            Then, abruptly, his straining muscles slackened, his features went lax, and his growling panting ceased. A heartbeat later, he started seizing.

            “Turn him over!” Claire shouted, pushing her way between Luke and Danny. “Get him on his side!”

            They obeyed, pulling and manipulating Matt into the recovery position. Claire added another long strip of tape to the IV port in his arm, clearly afraid it would be pulled free. Without looking at anyone else, she told them to let Matt go.

            They all backed away, watching as Claire pulled back Matt’s eyelids, wiped foam from his lips, stroked back his hair. Air shivered from him as he convulsed. Horrible, weak whimpers broke through his painful gasps like invisible knives flying right for Jessica’s heart as she stood there, helpless, useless.

            Again.


	11. Paranoid

            Matt rose to consciousness slowly, pulling with him the heavy weight of deepest exhaustion. He was too tired to care about the nasal cannula digging into his cheekbone as he lay curled on his side. Too wrecked to feel the aches and pains as more than a distant annoyance. Too drained to register the familiar wave of fear. He just lay on the soft bed under the heavy blanket and tried to let his foggy mind calm, ignoring everything his crippled senses pestered him into noticing.

            A memory rose, sharp and jagged, burning through the fog and demanding to be relived. Bandages wrapped tight around his burning eyes. A stiff hospital bed mired in a thousand echoing screams. His father’s frantic voice, the pounding heat pulsing from his skin. Big hands guiding his own.

            His father’s face. The instant calming of those familiar cheekbones, the rough stubble as soothing as silk.

            Matt opened his eyes. He remembered that day – or night? – so vividly, remembered tracing his father’s face again and again as he cried and fought for bravery and breath. He could barely remember what his dad had looked like. The only image he could recall was hazy and confusing, quickly eaten away by an encroaching darkness that had never left.

            It had been a very long time since he had missed his father this acutely, this painfully. Grief scorched the nebulous pressure from his mind, leaving him alert and exhausted and miserable. Raising a hand to wipe the tear from his nose was far too much effort. He just lay there, eyes reluctantly blinking wider. Not that that made any difference.

            “Matt?”

            He started, his heart leaping briefly in his chest before falling back into its sluggish rhythm.

            “Oh, sorry. I thought you heard me.”

            “Danny?” He coughed, pain shooting through his ribs.

            “Yeah. Hey, do you want some water?”

            Knowing it would (probably) be worth the effort, he nodded and opened his hand.

            “Do you wanna sit up?”

            “Do I have to?” he croaked.

            Danny chuckled. “Nah, it’s a bottle.” The crackle of the first twist. The low whirl as the lid was spun free. “Here you go.”

            He placed it carefully in Matt’s hand. Full to the brim. Great. With a supreme effort of will he heaved himself onto his shoulder, which snarled in protest, and gulped down several long draughts of the cool, wonderfully clear water. As soon as he stopped to breathe he fell back onto the pillow, just managing to keep the bottle upright.

            “Tired, huh?”

            He grunted an affirmative. Danny gently took the bottle away and he let his hand curl back into a loose fist.

            “How long’ve I been out?”

            “Few hours. Luke and Jessica had some work to do and Claire ran home for a shower and clean clothes and stuff. Oh, speaking of,” he added cheerfully, “I picked you up some sweatpants and shirts and stuff. Figured you’d be sick of just wearing your undies.”

            That made his lips wobble into a smile. Undies.

            “Thanks, Danny.” Had he known before what a sweet guy he was? If he had he’d forgotten. But then, they had been busy fighting undying megalomaniacs and Elek –

            He stopped himself.

            “How you feeling?” Danny asked quietly a minute later, clearing noticing the change in Matt’s expression.

            He shrugged.

            “Jessica told us your senses weren’t ... sensing properly.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Claire checked you out when you were unconscious. Says your ears are really enflamed and some special protein in your blood is way lower than it should be. She found some traces of anaesthetic and hallucinogens still in there too, so she’s pretty sure that, given time, you’ll be back to normal – your normal – if you just rest and take it easy.”

            The flare of hope was almost painful in his chest.

            “Really?”

            “Yep. She sounded real confident. And relieved. Said you’d be seeing flames in no time?” he added, clearly confused.

            _Thank you, thank you God._

            “That’s great,” he said breathily, feeling the tightness in his chest ease delicately. He tried to remember the controlled chaos of Claire’s ministrations but his mind was worryingly blank. “Did I have another seizure?”

            “Yeah. You hit Claire, too.”

            Matt’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”

            “No, no, it’s okay,” Danny said quickly. “You didn’t mean to, you just got a bit, y’know, freaked out. She’s not mad or anything.”

            “Oh.” Well if he hadn’t been feeling shitty before.

            In a futile attempt to not think about it, he took as deep a breath as his increasingly aching ribs would allow and with it came the uniquely _Danny_ scent of cedar and expensive aftershave. He couldn’t remember if this was the first time they’d spoken since everything had changed. He suspected not.

            With the air of someone eager to de-awkward a conversation, Danny said quickly,

            “Did Stick teach you meditation? I think you’d find it really helpful. Helps with healing. And sorting through stuff.”

            Matt managed to keep the wave of grief off his face.

            “Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely. “He taught me.”

            “Does it work for you?”

            Wishing he was still unconscious, he nodded weakly. “Used to, at least. Can’t ... now.”

            “How come?”

            “Can’t ... find the quiet.”

            “Ah. I understand that.” Danny’s voice was serious now. “It took me a long time to find my centre again when I realised what I’d done to K’un-Lun. And after Midland Circle.” He hesitated. Then, in a bit of a rush said, “I tried to do as you asked, Matt. I doubt I was as good at is as you are, but, I tried. And I did help some people. And I really want to thank you for that. Even before I met you I was ... pretty lost. Protecting your city showed me what I could do. Me – not just the Immortal Iron Fist. I’m really grateful to you for that. And I’m really glad you’re back.”

            Silence fell between them as Matt tried to take in what he’d just heard. Not fully understanding and unable to find the words to convey the warm pressure building in his heart, he extended one hand out to Danny’s voice. His callused fingers wrapped gently around Matt’s. He could feel the steady heartbeat pulse through the contact.

            Matt thought his smile might even look natural this time.

            “You know I’ve been taking classes lately?” Danny asked after a comfortable pause, taking the silent cue as Matt’s exhausted fingers relaxed and withdrawing his hand. “Luke talked me into it. I’m getting my GED.”

            “That’s great, Danny,” Matt said, hoping his uncertainty didn’t bleed into his tone. It had been a long time since anyone had talked to him like this. Small talk. Just ... person to person.

            It was nice.

            “Thanks. Then I think I’ll take some business courses, y’know? Luke’s been showing me all these amazing programs in Harlem, like the Big Brother one, you know it? If I knew more about Rand Enterprises I bet I could help out with that kind of thing. Colleen says it’s a less bloody way to help the city.”

            “Yeah, it is.” Matt cleared his throat, suppressing a wince. “It’s good you’re getting your GED, Danny. Really. Could go to college if you wanted.”

            “Maybe, yeah. But I don’t know about all those essays. I suck at spelling. There wasn’t much need for it in K’un-Lun.”

            He chuckled and, to his surprise, Matt joined in. If quietly. There was another brief pause as Matt surreptitiously braced his abdomen. The myriad complaints were getting louder. He didn’t care.

            “Hey Matt?”

            “Mm?”

            “Can I ask you something you might not want to answer? It’s cool if you don’t.”

            “Okay,” he said slowly, unconsciously curling in on himself a might tighter.

            “Do you remember what happened in Midland Circle? After we left?”

            The slice of the knife into the elevator winch. Elektra slashing him across his middle. The screeching fall and resonant boom as the elevator fell, likely crushing the people he had tried to save. There was no time to listen for their heartbeats, Elektra was fighting as fiercely as she ever had. The battle changing. Feeling her arms around him as he fought to hold her blade from his throat. Holding her. Kissing her, as the world imploded around him, its intensity muted by the feeling of her lips on his ...

            “You don’t have to talk about it,” Danny offered, a note of concern colouring his tone.

            Unable to speak, Matt just nodded.

            “Luke told me what IGH did to you. I haven’t seen the files, but ... I know you don’t want to talk about this, and I swear I’ll shut up after, but I need you to know how much I admire you, Matt. I mean, up until a few days ago you were being electrocuted and beaten and – sorry,” he interrupted himself, instantly bashful. “You remember. My point is, it’s amazing you can lie there, all calm and quiet and have a conversation after everything you went through. And I really look forward to protecting our city together, when you’re ready.”

            “Danny, I ...” His composure was cracking, he could feel it. His addled brain couldn’t keep up with all the words, all the sensations and impressions rolling past him. Keeping his breathing even was taking more strength than he had, and constantly, every second, every moment there was this lurching, icy fear coiling inside him, just waiting for the spell to break and the dream to end and the pain to start again. He wasn’t admirable. He was pathetic. A shadow of what he had once been almost proud of. For the first time in his life he was glad his father was dead because if he could see his son now, curled up and near tears and terrified of every half-heard sound, he would be beyond disappointed. Beyond heartbroken.

            A wave of acute longing for Stick washed over him. Stick would know how to fix him. Or at least have the decency to put him out of his misery.

            “I must look better than I feel,” he finished lamely, his voice barely above a whisper.

            A flurry of tiny squeaks and a rush of cedar meant Danny had leant forward in his chair. A hand appeared on Matt’s shoulder and he almost managed not to wince.

            “There’s an honorific we used to use in K’un-Lun,” he said quietly, squeezing Matt’s shoulder. “It’s reserved only for the greatest of our warriors, the most noble and best of leaders, in between eras of the Iron Fist. The Dragon. As far as I’m concerned, Matt, you’re a Dragon.”

            The first genuine, unforced smile Matt could remember in a long time stretched across his lips. He raised his free hand and squeezed Danny’s wrist, not to feel his heartbeat, but to convey the gratitude he didn’t have the words for. Danny returned the pressure on his shoulder, exhaling around a smile, then leaned back.

            “We had a memorial for you, you know. And a wake.”

            “What?” A breathy croak, hardly audible.

            “Yeah. Your friends, Foggy and Karen? They arranged it. The priest gave a really nice eulogy. Even Jessica was crying – only don’t tell her I said that. Then back in your apartment we just sort of talked for a while. And drank, there was a lot of drink.

            “They were really heartbroken,” he finished quietly, seeing the question contorting Matt’s face. “Foggy was sort of ... I dunno, I got the impression he was still in shock or something. And Karen was so pissed off. She kept saying if people knew you were Daredevil the church wouldn’t’ve been big enough for all the people paying their respects. But people still just assume Daredevil’s in hibernation or something.”

            “They ... were they angry?” he sounded every bit as fragile as he felt and he hated it. He reached one hand forward uncertainly, and Danny understood.

            “A little, yeah,” he said, pressing his wrist into Matt’s hand. “But not at you, not really. They just ... really missed you. They’ll be so happy when they find out you’re okay.”

            Danny’s heartbeat was perfectly steady. Not so much as a flicker. Which only meant he believed what he said. He didn’t know them, couldn’t know how they really ...

            God, did he want that to be true. But he knew it couldn’t be.

            At least Foggy never had to see his ruined body. It was better they didn’t know.

            Feeling the heat of Danny’s gaze, Matt cleared his throat and injected as much steadiness into his tone as he could.

            “Hey D-Danny? I, uh, I think I’ll try get some sleep. Real tired.”

            “Sure Matt. Claire told me to stay with you till you woke up but I’ll just be in the kitchen, okay? Got some homework to do. Did you know there was a whole war without a single weapon being fired?”

            Smiling at the enthusiasm in the billionaire’s tone, Matt nodded, exhaustion slowing the movement.

            “Anyway, I’ll be out there if you need anything.” The whispering chaos of cloth and furniture as he got to his feet. “Sleep well, Matt.” With a slow-motioned punch to his shoulder – and a quick apology as Matt flinched – Danny’s footsteps receded into the hated quiet that pressed close against Matt’s feeble awareness.

            As soon as the door clicked shut, his mind began racing, more alert than it had been in months.

            Foggy and Karen had been _grieving him_ for _six months_. From the snippets of information Trish and Jessica had told him, they were doing well. They were happy, all things considered. They didn’t need him. And neither did Hell’s Kitchen.

            His Daredevil suit had been lost somewhere between Midland Circle and the hazy half-memories of a place than smelled of damp and cheap linens, where the vaguest impression of something that might have been a rosary swung above his head as kind hands wiped the blood from his skin. Wherever, whatever that had been, it wasn’t IGH. He would have heard them say it if they knew he had once been the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He remembered fighting them whenever he could think past the thick fog of drugs and pain. But had that been the devil inside him or just a habit? A reflex left over from years of carefully hidden rage pounding through his fists into the people who didn’t even see him as a human being? Who only saw him as an overgrown lab rat, Subject Twelve, who was a nuisance but a potential goldmine so they couldn’t lobotomise him until they figured out their goddamn formula.

            Thank God Jessica had found him before they took another sample of bone marrow.

            It was time to make a decision, Matt knew. Whatever had been done to him could not be undone. Even if his senses really did come back to him, he would never again be whole. How could he possibly return to court? How could he go back to ironing shirts and buying groceries? The life he had lived had ended under Midland Circle. The man he had been was dead. Was it worth trying to take him back? To force the jagged shards back into a weakened whole?

            Six months. Six months without its devil and Hell’s Kitchen was no worse than it had been before. Better, maybe, with Luke and Danny keeping an eye on everything. They didn’t need him. No one needed him.

            So why did he ache to walk its vibrant streets again? To see Foggy and Karen again, to feel their warmth and hear their voices which had haunted and blessed his dreams since he thought he died?

            Because he was a weak, selfish piece of shit. That’s why.

            Foggy had told him, outright, over and over, that Daredevil would kill him one day. As far as he and Karen were concerned it had. And they had grieved. And then moved on. It was different for them, they had families. Each other. Karen had her brother and the Bulletin, had the chance now to fall for someone who wouldn’t hurt her, like he had. Hurt them both. Again and again. Now they were free of him. Safe. No one would target them because of who he was, and he could ask Jess and the others to keep an eye on them. Make sure Fisk never touched them. What had he done for them that hadn’t caused them pain? It was better for them that he stayed dead.

            Besides, even if they did truly want him back, what would it change? He had no illusions about his life, he knew he was never destined to grow old. His father hadn’t. He could feel the rage inside him, condensed by months of fear and pain but only made stronger as a result. He knew he could never be content, be himself, without it. Elektra had shown him that. Twice. Even if, by some miracle and unearned grace of God he could claw his way back to who he had once been, what would that do to Foggy and Karen? He would return from the dead only for them to lose him again? Only for him to have to lie, to justify himself, to try again to explain that he could not live without what they so rightly hated? He had only ever dragged them down. Why would the future be any different?

            His knuckles were screaming with the force of his fists. His abdomen stung and burned under the pressure of his arm. Tears trickled over his nose, along his cheek. His jaw ached from clamping down on so many strangled groans. Every time he thought their names his heart would quiver with longing.

            He missed them so much. But if he came back to them, he’d only be putting them in worse danger. Only be causing them more pain.

            The others didn’t understand IGH. All their research couldn’t tell them what kind of people ran it. He remembered when the CEO had visited, inspecting the production and cheerily picking up the cattle prod himself. He had laughed as Matt screamed and suffocated and cried like a child in the tank, his adrenaline spiking with savage enjoyment. He had ordered the procedure that had doused Matt’s fiery world. He had told them to break Subject Twelve at any cost. Matt had heard how much his life was worth to them.

            And he knew they would not let some angsty PI deny them their profits. They would come for him. It was just a matter of time. He was nothing but a resource to them. A rare well of something they couldn’t make on their own. A means through which to create God knew how many enhanced soldiers, never learning from the failed assimilations who had screamed and scratched their ears till they bled as a thousand shrieking details pounded into them, unable to focus, unable to breathe. Matt had heard them die. And he had cursed his own heart for keeping him alive.

            He may be free of IGH’s labs and cages, but he could never be free as long as they existed. They would come for him. And he could barely stand.

            It would have been so much better if he had just died in Elektra’s arms.


	12. It Has to Hurt, If It's to Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for those sensitive to scenes of a suicidal nature or mention of sexual assault. If you’re anxious about reading a chapter with those elements just shoot me a message and I’ll give you a clean summary :)

            _“Put it on,” he whispered, his voice as smooth as velvet. “You’ll love it.”_

            _“I will love it,” her mouth repeated languidly while the tiny voice in the back of her head screamed and fought against the pressure that kept it there. She took the lingerie into the other room. He liked getting the full effect._

            _Her hands would not obey her, her legs refused to run for the door. She was trapped, undressing herself as though in a dream – or a nightmare – while every pore of her being burned with hate and fear and a rage not strong enough to break through his control._

            _The most she could do was slow herself. Draw out the precious moments alone. Knowing what would follow. Wishing for it to end. Begging anyone and anything that was listening to please, please, make it end. Make him miscalculate. Give her thirty seconds of control. That’s all she’d need. Just half a minute._

            _“Hurry up, Jessica!”_

            _Her face could not express the despair that was choking her. Her muscles moved without her consent, pulling the disgusting leather into place as everything inside her wanted to scream, to run, to throw up, to STOP!_

            _Kilgrave was waiting on the couch, his waist jacket unbuttoned, his shirt untucked. The deep purple tie ran through his fingers, waiting to be tied painfully around her throat. He sat up straighter as her traitor body walked her out of the rare privacy. His lips pulled back, revealing teeth she would soon feel on her skin._

            _“Well now,” he cooed, shifting his weight eagerly. “I do have good taste. What do you think, Jessica?”_

            _“I love it,” she lied, unable to speak the truth._

            _“I knew you would.” His gaze darkened as it raked over her half-naked figure. The smile, that sent unfelt shivers up her spine, faded into a look of hunger, of base yearning. It was terrifying. “Get over here, Jessica Jones,” he said, each word spoken with the careful control of a man expecting to soon abandon all restraints. “Show me how much you love it. How much you love_ me _.”_

            Jessica bolted upright, gasping for breath. As always, it took her one horrible moment to realise it was a dream. A nightmare. She put a hand to her forehead and focused on slowing her breathing.

            _Get it together, Jones,_ she snapped. _He’s dead already. It’s done. It’s over._

            Maybe for everyone else.

            She reached down for the bottle nestled between her boots.

            “Goddamn it.” Empty. With a groan she grabbed her phone. 3.42am. Great. Rubbing her eyes into working she swung her legs over the edge of the couch and stood up, stumbling slightly as she plodded to the kitchen. Trish should have another bottle. She better have another bottle.

            She didn’t register the odd smell at first. Or the rhythm of fat droplets smacking into something liquid. It was the shallow panting that rose the little hairs on the back of her neck, though her brain was not yet awake enough to identify the source.

            As soon as she past the island in Trish’s kitchen, all traces of weariness were shocked from her as ice froze her every muscle, along with her breath.

            Matt was sitting against the cupboards in a pool that glistened darkly with a steak knife in one blood-soaked hand and a long, ruby cut along his right forearm, from wrist to elbow. The empty bottle of whiskey still in Jessica’s hand fell to smash against the floor, the sound far too beautiful for the scene in front of her. Matt flinched, dropping the knife and looking for the source of the chiming clatter.

            “J-Jessica?” The fragility of his tone broke through her paralysis, the hitching stammer of the single word cutting right through her.

            _“What the fuck are you doing, Murdock!”_ she hissed as she unfroze, powering forward and skidding to his side, snatching a hopefully clean tea towel from the counter on the way. She wrapped it tightly around his bleeding arm, ignoring his feeble attempts to stop her.

            “Jess, n-no, stop – yo-you don’t understand, I –”

            “I understand just fine,” she spat back, careful to keep her voice low. The last thing she needed was Trish seeing this. That would not end well. “Why not just OD you asshole? Why not –”

            “Jessica.” For some reason the exhaustion in his tone stopped her burgeoning tirade. She looked up into his useless eyes, his shaggy hair half-obscuring them.

            “What the hell are you doing?” she asked again, calmer now, her voice far steadier than she felt with the towel covering the gut-wrenching wound. The self-inflicted wound.

            “I’m not t-trying to kill myself,” he whispered, his eyes blinking slowly. “I n-need to get it out.”

            “Get what out?”

            "Tracker.”

            _Shit._ “What tracker?”

            He raised his bleeding arm, still tightly bound between her hands. Which were shaking. Hm.

            “I can feel it,” he breathed, his head falling back to lean against the cupboard with a faint _thump._ Tears were painting his cheeks in the silvery glow of the reflected half-light. “They’re coming. They’re coming.” The last words were barely audible as his eyes slid shut.

            “Oh hell no,” she snapped, releasing one hand and flat out slapping him. “Wake up, Murdock!”

            He frowned, flinching away from her. “I am awake, Jones.”

            Was he trying to sass her? Oh. Hell. No.

            “Do you even know how much blood you’ve lost? Shit, it’s everywhere! What the _hell_ were you thinking? What, we haven’t done enough for you, is that it? Thought you’d just check out and not deal with all your shit? Jesus, how do I stop this bleeding?!” The towel was already staining, a dark patch of burgundy slowly inching its way through the fibres.

            Matt placed his other hand over her forearm, his fingers slicked with a glove of cool blood. He turned his face to hers, his gaze aimed at her chin.

            “Jessica. I’m not trying to die. Look.”

            She followed his nod to a surgical sewing kit by his thigh, a roll of bandages waiting on its end beside it. She looked stupidly from it to his shaking arm to his haggard face and back.

            “You have three seconds to explain yourself or I swear to god I’m knocking you out and taking you to the ER. Fuck laying low.”

            The breath shivered through him as he inhaled. “They put something in there.” He sounded even worse than he looked. “A tracker. I forgot. Someone else almost got away.” Another tear escaped his lashes. “They found her. Brought her back. I h-heard her die. Heard them kill her.”

            She studied his expression for a long moment.

            “You’re serious?”

            He nodded weakly.

            “There’s a GPS device in your arm?

            Nod.

            “And you tried to cut it out yourself? Alone? At 4am?”

            Nod and a half-shrug.

            “The fuck, Murdock, I thought you were smart!”

            “Need to get it out,” he sighed, looking down to the arm she still held captive as though he could see it. “Need to ... keep them safe.”

            “Keep who safe?”

            He didn’t answer, just slumped against the cupboards, his other hand curling around the jagged scar raked across his middle.

            "Please, Jess,” he almost whimpered. Then, barely more than a sigh, “Help me.”

            Swallowing a whole lot of shit she’d have to drink away later, Jess looked down at the widening stain resting over her thighs. God, she must be insane.

            “Where do you think it is?”

            “N-not sure. Think h-here.” He pointed through the towel with a shaking finger.

            “Shit. Okay. But I swear to god, Matt, if you die now I’m going to fucking _kill_ you.”

            “Seems fair.” Was that a smirk?

            What an asshole.

            “Hold this here a sec,” she ordered, pressing his free hand over the towel. “I need to google how to stitch up stupid lawyers with death wishes.”

            He just nodded, the ghost of the smirk fading from his lips.

            She reached to her back pocket, then remembered her phone was by the couch. Along with her jeans.

            This was not a good night.

            “Do you know how to stich?” she asked, adding more pressure to the towel.

            “Yeah.”

            “My phone’s not here. Can you talk me through it?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Alright.” She swallowed hard. “You are going to owe me _so big_ for this.”

            “I already owe you e-everything,” he mumbled dazedly.

            Ignoring that and taking a deep breath that stank of blood she whipped the towel away and dug her fingers into the place he had indicated.

            Oh god oh god oh god this was so, _so_ wrong, this was –

            “Holy shit!” She could feel it. Holding the towel to the rest of the gash with her other hand she twisted her arm, ignoring the tight moans slipping through Matt’s clenched teeth. There was something there, like a giant grain of rice. Weirdly hot, hotter than Matt’s flesh. She pinched it between her fingers, careful of the slick blood pooling around her delicate grip. With a horrible squelching sound she would soon be drinking very hard to forget, she pulled the thing free.

            “Got it!” She held it up triumphantly. Then a wave of hot blood poured over Matt’s arm. “Oh, _shit!”_

            She dropped the tracker on the floor and turned her attention back to the guy bleeding to death beside her.

            “What do I do, Matt?” His eyes were half closed. “Matt! What the hell do I do?”

            His eyelids fluttered open. “Needle. Pick an end.”

            Thankfully a needle was already threaded, a scissor-like clamp locked securely around it. She picked it up in her bloody fingers and tried to figure out which end of the cut was bleeding more.

            Which she quickly realised was a really stupid question.

            Binding the towel tightly around all but the inch of severed flesh nearest his elbow, Jessica clamped the ends of the towel between her legs, keeping a firm, steady pressure over the rest.

            “Okay, now what?”

            His head thumped back into the cupboards. Shit, he was pale.

            “Pinch. Needle through. Not too deep.”

            Letting out a steady stream of curses, Jessica followed his truncated instructions. A metallic clatter and a low grunt from Matt and he held out a scissors to her. Feeling like she was ten seconds from puking all over his open wound, she tied the thread together as he described and pulled it tight. Snip the end, then done.

            “Great. Only about a million more to go.”

            “I can do it,” he offered, his voice still frighteningly weak.

            “Yeah right.”

            “Done it before, Jess.”

            “Claire stitches you up,” she countered automatically, her gaze focused entirely on the next stitch. The cut was actually pretty neat. Straight and not as deep as all the blood made her think.

            “Claire’s not always been there,” he answered tiredly.

            Jessica threw him a questioning scowl he didn’t see, then finished off the second stitch. They weren’t exactly neat. Or parallel. Who cares, they kept the guy’s arm together.

            Concentrating on the stitches and controlling the pain respectively, Jessica and Matt didn’t talk as she worked her way slowly along his arm as the towel grew heavier and darker. Whenever Matt got too quiet Jessica would stab the needle through his skin with a little more force than was necessary, making him grunt or at least hiss in pain. Which meant he was still awake-slash-alive. Good.

            “Done,” she croaked at long last, dumping the ruined towel aside and taking in the jagged line of irregular stitches. God, she felt like shit.

            Without moving his head Matt groped with his left hand for something that scraped lightly against the floor. Raising the slim packet to his teeth he tore it open, fumbling the antiseptic wipe that fell out and snatching it lethargically from his lap. As Jessica watched he rubbed it all over the long line of ugly stitches, pressing hard enough to make her wince in sympathy. Tossing the now-pink wipe aside he reached for the roll of bandages.

            “Here,” she offered quietly, taking it from his trembling grasp. She wrapped it tightly along his arm, looping it around his elbow and palm for good luck. Tying it off she slumped back against the kitchen island, her knees groaning silently as they finally stretched out of their cramped position.

            “You got it?” he rasped, cradling his arm against his chest.

            “Yeah.” She picked it up. There was no little blinking light or tiny antennae, but it was unmistakably a tracker. She’d had enough jealous spouses slip them into wallets and purses to recognise a high-end model.

            Reaching forward for Matt’s other hand, she let him feel the tiny capsule held between her forefinger and thumb. She didn’t miss the obvious relief sweeping across his face. His hand was still around hers when she crushed the tracker to dust.

            “Thank you,” he breathed, slumping back.

            “You are an asshole,” she sighed. She scrambled to her feet, trying not to touch anything with her blood-soaked hands. She slapped the faucet and rinsed the worst of it off, shaking the water free when she realised there was no other towel out. Then she reached up on her toes and found a full bottle of Jack Daniels behind a cereal she knew Trish didn’t eat. Sagging back to the floor opposite the idiot she cracked the bottle open and took a long, _long_ pull.

            Then she offered it to Matt. He drank it even more desperately than she had.

            “So are you going to tell me what’s up?” she said when he’d handed the bottle back.

            “Told you. Needed to get the tr- the tracker out.”

            “Bullshit. You were trying to kill yourself. The tracker was just an excuse. I told you, Murdock. I can read people. Don’t lie to me.”

            “That’s not –”

            “Save it.”

            “That’s not what I was doing, Jess. I promise.”

            “I said save it.”

            They drank in silence for a few minutes, sharing the bottle between them. The blood was starting to dry and congeal on the floor.

            “Talk, Murdock.”

            A shaking sigh fluttered from his lips. “I could feel it in there. I remembered them putting it in.” He turned his pale face in her direction. “What if they come for me? What if they get you? And Trish? Danny, Claire, Luke – what if –”

            “They’re not,” she cut across him. “They’re not coming, Matt. If they were they’d be here already. It’s been a week.” She pressed her leg into his under the pretence of shifting her weight saying, more softly now, “It’s only been a week.”

            He screwed his eyes shut and banged his head against the cupboard a few times. When he finally stopped and opened his eyes, they were as lost as she had ever seen them and brimming with helpless tears.

            “I thought I killed you,” he whispered. “All of you. I told her we could still leave, we had time. And sh-she threw her sword into the winch. I felt the elevator fall. It wasn’t even halfway up.” The tears were falling freely, silently. “I th-thought you were all dead.”

            “The lines did snap,” Jessica said slowly, staring at the half-empty bottle. “But we got out. Climbed the girder.” She hesitated, trying to find her courage. Another swig of whiskey helped. “I held the cable long enough for Luke and Danny to get out. But it was too heavy to tie off or climb with. So I let it drop.” She swallowed another burning amber mouthful. “I cut off your only way out. I trapped you down there. I’m the reason IGH got you in the first place.”

            She weathered the crushing silence that met her words by scowling at the bottle held tightly in her lap. If she looked up now she’d lose it.

            “Jessica ...”

            Damnit. That tone wasn’t fair. Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he throwing punches?

            His bandaged hand found hers. Both were still shuddering with every breath.

            “Jessica, that was not your fault,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I was never going to get out of there. She – E-Elektra, wanted me down there. With her. You didn’t do this to me.”

            Tears stung her eyes. How dare he sound so earnest, so sure, so ... kind. She did not deserve kind. She deserved to be put through everything he had had to endure in that hellhole.

            “Jess, listen to me,” he continued, his voice stronger now. “Believe me. Elevator or no, I was trapped down there. But not by you.”

            “You’re such an asshole,” she growled, her voice shaking with the tears escaping her day-old mascara. “You should’ve told us it was the bomb. You should’ve come with us.”

            “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand tighter.

            “I’m sorry for what they did to you,” she gasped, forcing herself to meet his sightless gaze. “I’m sorry you’re so messed up, but you can’t do this, Matt.” She tapped his bandaged arm. “You can’t. People need you, okay? You can’t just gamble like that.”

            “No one needs me, Jess,” he said softly, a sad smile twisting his expression. “I was dead for six months and nothing changed.”

            “Fuck that,” she said, anger colouring her tone. “Nothing changed? Have you not heard Danny? He’s been out on the streets trying to live up to your legacy! Claire opened her own clinic, did you know that? She calls it Night Nurse and it’s for anyone who can’t afford to go to hospital, whether because they don’t have insurance or would be arrested. Know where she got that idea?” Her voice was stronger now, a tense whisper with fury dripping from every syllable. “And Luke – you wanna know why he started up Heroes for Hire? Because he saw how important it was to be able to work outside the law. How much New York needs assholes in stupid horny outfits stopping muggings and taking down the shitheads the police can’t. Misty Knight got her arm cut off and she’s already doing rehab with Colleen, already fighting back.”

            Tears were skipping down her cheeks now but rage kept her voice steady.

            “You know your lawyer friend? Did you know he’s still working pro bono suits as well as all the shit Hogarth gives him? He’s still working for Nelson and Murdock, even though his partner’s dead and you fucked that firm up months ago. And Page, god, did you hear about her and that psycho? Some nut with a bomb targeted her and she got out of there and the Punisher fucking comes out of nowhere and you know what she does? She writes a column about what it means to fight for good. For truth. What it means to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. Nothing’s changed? Fucking _everything’s_ changed, you selfish son of a bitch!

            “None of us walked away from that day whole, none of us were the same. You _died_ trying to save some maniac because you still believed in her. Loved her. And we know – we _know_ – we wouldn’t have had time to get out of there if she’d come after us. You’re the reason we’re all _alive_ , Matt. Fuck knows how you survived that explosion but it was a miracle, you asshole. We somehow get you back, and I know you’re fucked up, but this is a miracle. And I’ve never believed in those ‘cause they’re for idiots who can’t explain when something good happens, but I’m calling this a miracle, Matt. An actual miracle. And you don’t get to throw that kind of thing away. You don’t get to give up. You don’t get to quit. None of us get to quit.”

            She took another pull on the bottle and chipped the glass on her teeth. She barely noticed the jagged speck scratching down her throat. She was too busy drowning her aching heart.

            There was a long silence as she drank and he stared at her elbow. Rogue tears were still trickling into his stubble. Hers had had the good sense to stop.

            “After she found out she was the Black Sky,” Matt said quietly, his voice hoarse but steady. “Elektra stood on the roof of my building, ready to jump. She wanted to kill herself rather than be what they told her she was. An-and I told her, ‘this feeling passes’. And I meant it. She came inside with me that night and we fought together to free her. To free the city. I-it didn’t work, but ... Then she was back. I couldn’t understand it. I was scared to question it. I couldn’t lose her again.”

            He took a shuddering breath. “And then we died together. I really thought we did. But ... I was somewhere before IGH found me.”

            “Mission centre.”

            He nodded, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, that fits. But I didn’t get there myself. And the only thing I can think is Elektra somehow got me there. That she’s alive too. But she left me there. And then IGH got me. And now ... I’m not ... whole, I-I’m ... broken. Worse than before. A-and I c-can’t –” he gasped, the sound sharp and painful – “I can’t see how, how I could go back to ... My friends, I can’t ... I can’t cause them more pain. But as long as I’m br-breathing I will.” His head flopped back onto the cupboard, eyes closed as tears snaked their way to his neck. He looked haggard. Drained. Hopeless.

            God, she knew the feeling.

            Jessica let out a whistling breath. “I think you might be even more fucked up than me.”

            He snorted at that, tilting his face towards her. Seriousness replaced levity almost at once as his eyes flicked between two points on her cheek.

            “I’m sorry, Jess. You’re right. I just ...” He shook his head. “I’ve been lost. Not being able to see, at all, it’s just ...”

            “Scary as shit?” she offered.

            “Yeah. But you’re right. Murdocks never quit. We get up. We always get back up.” These last words were little more than an exhausted sigh.

            “So next time you think there’s a tracking device in your shin or some shit, you’ll tell us first?”

            That got her a chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

            She held out the bottle.

            “Good. Asshole.”

            Wishing he had a less expressive face, she took his other hand in hers and squeezed, hoping he’d understand what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

            He squeezed back.


	13. You're Gonna Want to Sit Down for This

            The Miller/Decker case was turning into a real shitstorm. Three settlements already denied, guaranteed hissy fits whenever they shared a room, and they weren’t so much fighting for custody of Annie as they were just trying to stop their spouse ‘winning’. Like what the fridge, man?

            If Miller vs Decker was he only draining case on his docket it’d be fine, but Hogarth had stuck him with three other suits that seemed tailor-made to claw his every speck of faith in humanity from his moral-weary heart. Not to mention a friendless kid using his one and only dime to emancipate himself from his piece of shit adoptive father. Abusive psycho who didn’t much show affection as he did the buckle of his belt. Some cases always meant more than others, some had a way of hitting you right in the emotional nuts. That was definitely one of those little treasures.

            With a deep, dramatic sigh, Foggy Nelson held his head in his hands and leaned on his over-cluttered desk. The steady paycheck and pension and benefits and all were nice, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss spending the work day turning over every pebble in a single case, fiddling with his bat and ball and swapping theories with –

            _Don’t go there,_ he thought tiredly to himself. _Not today. Don’t even think it._

            He let his hands flop back onto the open file, glaring mournfully at his literal mountain of work. The stack of casefiles waiting to be edited made his plastic triceratops look like a flamboyant ant. He checked his watch, then quickly head-butted the desk as his will to sit up shrivelled.

            How could it only be ten-thirty? How! He’d been working for at least three days since he woke up. Why must time be such a lackadaisical mistress?

            _Alright, Nelson,_ he thought in as peppy a mental tone as he could manage. _Enough wallowing in the despairs of corporate labour. Now you must fight! Fight the wicked File Mountain! Then you can go have a nice, looong lunch with Marci._

            Intentionally ignoring the fact that a “looong lunch” meant no more than forty-nine minutes unless he wanted Chao to chew him out again, Foggy took a bracing breath and rolled his neck, determined to get at least one of these bad boys finished within the hour.

            (He was getting really good at ignoring the Ache. He hadn’t thought about not thinking about it almost all morning. Progress. Woo.)

            Knowing the emancipation case would take more emotional strength than he currently had at his disposal since it reminded him too much of – _Don’t even think it –_ he turned his attention back to human failures Clara Miller and Miles Decker. Nothing like two selfish parents ignoring their child’s obvious proximity to a mental breakdown to make you forget about ... stuff you wanna forget about.

            He had just managed to bully himself into the zone when the unmistakable sound of a commotion started crawling under his door. Throwing a scowl in the offending direction, he managed to keep his focus, assuming it was just another disgruntled customer.

            Until they started shouting. Then it was bye-bye zone for him. And hello stomach ulcer! That was definitely Jessica Jones out there. Arguing with the floor secretary. Great.

            He was just getting to his feet to go meet the bull in person when his door burst open (thankfully clinging to its hinges, unlike a certain other time) and the world’s crabbiest private investigator walked into his room. Although _stalked_ was probably a better term since he had a very distinct impression of being a lame gazelle cornered by a lioness. A goth lioness.

            “Miss Jones you can’t just –” Mandy was _trying_ to be professional, but she couldn’t even get the sentence out.

            “Just save it, lady,” Jones griped without even looking at her, her mascaraed eyes fixed on Foggy, whose impulse to run was slowly fading. Yay progress!

            “I need to talk to you,” Jones said, levelling him with an intense look she might not even realise was _terrifying._ “Now.” She half-turned to indicate Mandy. “Alone.”

            “It’s okay, Mandy,” Foggy said quickly, smiling at her and deeply empathising with the unmistakable _I want to strangle her_ expression taking over her usually mild countenance. “I’ll handle this.”

            Throwing Jones a dark look she (thankfully) didn’t see, Mandy slunk – she actually _slunk_ – back into the hall. Foggy gestured to the chair opposite his desk, grinning somewhat sheepishly.

            “What can I help you with, Miss Jones?”

            “Cut the formal shit.”

            “Well okay then.”

            “I need to talk to you.”

            “So I gathered.” Foggy watched as she paced distractedly from window to wall and back. Much like a tiger in a cage. “Do you wanna sit?”

            She glanced at the proffered chair, pausing only momentarily. “No. But you should. This is gonna be a lot.”

            Feeling duly apprehensive, Foggy sat, sliding a hand over his tie to keep it in place.

            “Is this a legal issue?” he asked when she didn’t speak.

            “No. It’s more of a ... mindfuck issue.” Finally coming to a stop opposite him, she sat down in a flurry of raven hair and scowling eyes. “Okay. There’s literally no easy way to say this but just promise me you won’t have a heart attack or something. I swear to Christ I can’t take any more medical shit today.”

            “Okaay,” he said slowly, properly frightened now. “Are you in trouble?”

            She shrugged one shoulder. “Not so much I notice. No, this isn’t about me. It’s about Matt.”

            “Oh.” Foggy could feel the great waves of grief crashing against his hastily-constructed walls, eager to lash into his heart like icy whips. “What about him?”

            “He’s not dead.”

            Foggy didn’t move. He hadn’t heard that right. Clearly.

            “Um, what did you say?”

            “Matt’s alive, Nelson. He’s alive and he’s in Trish’s apartment.”

            “Trish Walker?” _Oh yeah,_ that’s _your question!_

            “Yeah.” There was a brief pause as she considered his expression. He had no idea what his face was doing but his heart had been replaced by a small iceberg and his lungs had forgotten how to lung. “I’m not kidding, man. He’s alive. He’s in pretty shit shape, but, he’s not dead.”

            A great bubbling laugh ripped itself up through Foggy’s chest and cascaded over the desk like invisible sonic rain.

            “That is _so_ not funny,” he sighed, wiping a non-existent tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.

            “I know, asshole, I’m not joking.” She twisted in the chair, pulling her phone from her back pocket and tapping it. “Here, want proof?”

            She held the phone out to him, an image open on the screen. Still smiling wryly, Foggy took it.

            Which is when his heart stopped.

            It was a close-up shot of a man asleep in a bed – a normal double, not a hospital cot with rails – the harsh glare of the flash reducing the background to indistinguishable shadow, but revealing the subject in stark detail. He had one of those nose-breathing thingies stretching over his cheeks, lying on his side with his eyes closed. Cradling his head with his arms, both of which were bandaged. He was pale, the weirdly shaggy hair and stubble making his face seem even whiter in the glare. The guy looked exhausted, even asleep. Thin too, the one collarbone the picture showed was way too sitcky-outie for a healthy person. He looked like shit.

            It was Matthew Murdock.

            Forgetting how to do words Foggy just gaped at Jessica, his eyes flashing from Matt’s face to hers and back, trying to figure out how she had this, and when Matt had been all beat to shit and not in his apartment.

            The waves were getting more violent.

            “It’s real,” she said, her words taking an awfully long time to move from Foggy’s ears to his brain, and even longer to make any sense. “I found him, when I was investigating this shithole, IGH. Broke him out, took him to Trish’s. We’ve been taking care of him ever since, while we gather everything we need to bring them down.”

            “W-we?” he managed to croak.

            “Luke, Claire, Danny.”

            “Whe-en?”

            “Got him out eight days ago. We wanted to give him some time before we told you and Page.” She averted her gaze. “That was a dick move. So I’m telling you now, because Matt really needs you.”

            Foggy stared back at the screen, which had dimmed. His finger tapped it without him sending the instruction, and the image of Matt lit up again. This ... couldn’t be real, right? It’d been six months, Matt was more than just dead he was worm food – if worms could get in to that pit.

            “This ... doesn’t ...”

            “I know it’s a lot,” Jessica said quickly, her tone softer than Foggy had ever heard it. “Trust me. We don’t even know how he got out of there, but ... somehow he did.”

            “He didn’t ...? He wasn’t i-in there?”

            She frowned, clearly considering how much to tell him. He knew that look, from a different face. A spark of anger flared somewhere inside him and he grabbed at it, desperate to unfreeze.

            “Tell me everything you know, Jones.” She raised her eyebrows in a way that had formerly made him quail, but now he just matched her, scowl for scowl. He was not gonna be some damn sideliner anymore. Not again, not after ... not after everything. “Right. Now _._ ”

            “You’re not gonna wanna hear everything,” she answered coolly.

            “Well I didn’t want to hear Matt was dead but somehow I got over it!” he snapped.

            _Not that I had to hear it. You just stood there while we stared at that goddamn door, wishing he’d walk through it._

            “Fine. He thinks that bitch Elektra somehow got him out of the pit after the explosion, but he doesn’t remember. He was in a mission centre in Hell’s Kitchen, I’m not sure where, and he doesn’t know. Then somehow IGH got him from there – it’s what they do. They take people they think no one will miss and they use them.”

            “Use them?”

            “They’re a paramilitary corporation who specialise in human enhancements. I think they had something to do with ... this,” she said quietly, casually lifting his entire desk a few inches with a single hand before letting it wobble back to the floor. The stack of files slid over the dino zone, thoroughly wiping them out in a micro-apocalyptic paper-slide.

            “While I was being shown around the place, I saw Matt. He was one of their ‘patients’.”

            “Why do I sense air quotes?”

            “Because that’s their word for glorified lab rat.”

            Foggy stared at her, the ice inside him hardening, fit to crack along the scars of the last six months. “Explain.”

            “They experimented on him, trying to find a way to synthesize his enhanced senses.”

            “Synthesize ...” This was really not how he thought his day would go. “Do they know who he was? What do you mean ‘experiments’?”

            “Far as we can tell they don’t know who he _is_.” She said pointedly, then hesitated. “They were rough. You really aren’t gonna want to know. I don’t want to know.”

            “Cut the shit and tell me,” he snapped, throwing her a fierce scowl and ignoring the uncharacteristically vulnerable tilt of her eyebrows. He seemed to have temporarily forgotten he was snarking at a lady who could literally kill him with her pinky finger.

            She held his gaze for a long moment. When she spoke, she spoke to her fingers fidgeting in her lap.

            “They kept him in a cage that was too small for him to stand up. They’d electrocute the bars. That was just for fun. Put him in a sensory deprivation tank. He kept fighting back so they beat him into a coma at one point. Took him three days to wake up. They took bone marrow and blood and shocked him whenever he got out of line. They’d strap him down and put on this mask that controlled his breathing so he was essentially almost suffocating the whole time it was on while they’d blare sirens and fry his fingertips or beat him. They kept him sedated almost the whole time, fed him hallucinogens and enough other shit so he couldn’t think straight, let alone fight back. They barely gave him food or water, hardly ever let him sleep. And ...”

            Jessica took a bracing breath and continued, her eyes snapping up to meet Foggy’s. “And one time they strapped him down to a table and they stuck these probe things into his ears and gagged him so he couldn’t even scream and they essentially found out how electroshock therapy worked on someone which such enhanced sensitivity. They had wires stuck to his head so they could monitor his brain waves, see how he reacted to different stimuli, all of them painful. And then they deafened him, to see what would happen. And the stuff they did to him then, it was ... beyond inhumane. His hearing came back but after everything they did none of his senses are working the way they used to. Claire thinks he’ll be fine in time, but, for now? He’s a mess.”

            Foggy looked down to the phone in his hand. It had locked itself. Too numb to wake it up he tried to reconcile everything Jessica had just said to the image she had shown him. Maybe that would explain the haggard cast to the sleeping features. But then a flash of memory reared behind his eyes, of Matt laughing in their old office, a butterfly stitch bridging a wide cut above his eye, his dark glasses catching the light as he turned to Foggy, his face alight with mirth at whatever joke had broken through the gloomy haze that had clung to him throughout their too-short partnership. Then another, a drunk Matt with a wide grin staggering down the hall to their dorm room, holding Foggy up and giggling as his cane whacked into the wall.

            Matt, groaning and half-conscious as Claire pulled another stitch through the great gash on his side while Foggy held him down as he tried pathetically to fight back. Matt, alone in their dorm, his glasses discarded on the bed while he ran his fingers over his father’s name on the robe he kept hidden away with photographs he could never see. He had asked Foggy to describe them, once. One night after Elektra broke him and Matt had spent three days without speaking unless asked a direct question, after an anxious Foggy had tried and failed again to get him to eat something. Something had snapped in Matt that night, something small that had been fixed by the time the sun rose, but for the first time in their friendship, Matt had turned his naked, sightless eyes on Foggy and told him he wasn’t okay. That he couldn’t remember what the photos were, what colour the raised letters were against the red robe. And he had asked Foggy to tell him, in a tiny voice he had never heard before or since, and when Foggy described them, in as much detail as he could fathom, Matt had put an arm around his shoulders and blinked the unshed tears from his eyes and said he was really glad he had been assigned room 312.

            The things Jessica was describing ... what that would do to a person ... This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened in real life. Even in the insanity that Matt’s life had been, this shit was from some over the top sci-fi dystopian thriller, like The Island or The Matrix or ... or something. But not in real life. Not to anyone Foggy knew.

            But then, when had Matt ever been just ‘anyone’? Even before he put on those stupid ninja PJs Matt was different to anyone else. And not because he was blind. Because he was just ... Matt. Just this guy who had been through so much shit and never complained and was always smiling and would stay up with you till five in the morning helping you get your head around Punjabi verbs before your final.

            And then Matt became Daredevil and everything went to shit, but he was still Matt. Still the strongest person Foggy had ever met, still the gentlest. Still his best friend.

            And then he wasn’t. And then he was dead.

            And now he was alive? After what, six months of torture? Alone. Probably hating himself for not making it out of that goddamn building, knowing Foggy and Karen’d be pissed. Probably grieving Elektra. Again. Deaf and blind and unable to fight his way out of a place where they didn’t even treat him like a person. Years of underestimation and metaphorical gloves and taught Matt to deal with people handling him carefully, pitying him and assuming he couldn’t do much. Treating him like he was less than they were. He’d gotten good at being patient with well-meaning accidental assholes. But this? This was ... Foggy had no words for what this was.

            He turned his stunned and slightly wet eyes on Jessica.

            “How do you know all this,” he croaked as nausea stormed through his stomach.

            “Stole his file. There were clips.”

            “He was ... h-he is?” He wasn’t making any sense even to himself, but somehow Jessica understood. She reached forward to take her phone back, her fingers brushing against his hand in a weirdly comforting way and he wasn’t sure if that was accidental or just really, really smooth.

            “He is.”

            The silence Foggy had felt as he held Karen and stared, knowing, at that door was back. Only now it wasn’t so ... It was warmer. Softer. But no less frightening.

            “How ... What do you mean ‘a mess’?”

            “He almost bled to death last night trying to cut a tracking device from his arm at 4am.” Her voice wasn’t as steady now. “I thought he was trying to kill himself. Still not so sure he wasn’t.”

            “No,” Foggy said quickly, a humourless smile taking over his lips, something fiery scorching through his quailing heart. “No, see, you’re wrong. There’s been some mistake – that wasn’t Matt.” He waved at her phone, indicating the photo hidden by its slumber. “Matt would never do that. He might go up against a bunch of maniacs with guns with nothing but a couple of sticks, but he would never k-kill himself. He wouldn’t.”

            “Yeah. I thought that too,” she agreed dryly. “But then I spent an hour this morning mopping up his blood after I’d stitched up a six-inch self-inflicted gash and you know what? The idea didn’t seem so crazy.”

            Her eyes blazed into his and for the first time he saw past all the bravado and belligerence to the woman underneath. A woman who cared about Matt Murdock, who was asking for help for her own sake as much as his. Someone who was scared by what she had seen.

            “He needs you. He needs someone who just knows him. Someone who doesn’t give a shit about Daredevil and just wants _him,_ because he’s thinking he should have died under Midland Circle.”

            Matt was alive? Matt was actually alive. And thinking he shouldn’t be.

            Oh holy shit. Oh holy _shit,_ this was real. She wasn’t lying. Holy shit. Karen was right. _Holy shit._

            Foggy rushed to his feet, half-turning one way and then the other, putting a hand to his forehead and trying valiantly not to hyperventilate.

            “I need to see him,” he babbled. “I need to see him, he’s alive – he’s actually alive? Like, _alive_ alive? Fuck. Shit. This is – I need to see him, like, right now.”

            “I’ll take you. Come on.”

            With all higher brain functions currently suspended, Foggy just grabbed his jacket and phone and followed Jessica out his office door.

            “Mr Nelson, you’re leaving?” Mandy asked with evident disapproval. “You have a meeting with Decker at one o’clock!”

            “Reschedule!” he shouted without even turning around, the single word ringing with a clear note of hysteria as he pulled on his blazer and frantically unlocked his phone. “We need to make a stop first,” he said breathlessly as the elevator doors dinged shut.

            “Seriously?”

            He threw Jessica an incredulous glance. “Karen.”

            Putting the phone to his ear he tried to think of what to say. And to silence a selfish dick of a voice in his head whispering that he could just call her later.

            The call rang out. Cursing, he dialled again. No answer. Again. Nothing. Well, why was he surprised? She hadn’t picked up after the whole Castle fiasco, why would she pick up now? Hell, it wasn’t like she’d moved two zip codes away and had been actively avoiding all contact with him for months!

            “Screw it.” He selected another number. The one he had used to find out how she was after the Punisher had shot himself back into her life.

            “Mr Nelson,” came the less-than-friendly answer.

            “Ellison – is Karen there?”

            “Um, yes, she’s at her desk.”  


            “Don’t let her leave. I’m on my way.”

            “She’s writing a story, Nelson, I can’t just –”

            “She’ll be taking the rest of the day off,” Foggy cut across him as the doors opened and he and Jessica half-jogged outside to get a taxi.

            He heard the editor scoff. “Am I allowed know why I’m losing one of my reporters two days before print?”

            “Family emergency.”


	14. Miracle Matt Murdock

            Karen hadn’t needed the full explanation until they were in the cab heading for Trish Walker’s place. Foggy had just walked in (or kind of stumbled in, if he was honest) and said Matt was alive and she’d just stared at him for a long moment. Then she’d grabbed her bag and coat and told him to explain on the way. She hadn’t even cried. He really thought she’d cry.

            Jessica gave another, far briefer summary of what had happened as they rode through New York, keeping her voice low as though the cab driver might be one of Them.

            Which, honestly? Was right on the line between paranoia and genius.

            Hearing it all again, even truncated and far more PG as it was, made Foggy’s heart skip into an unreliably shaky rhythm. Keeping his breathing steady suddenly required concentrated effort. But Karen held his hand in hers, her fingers a vice around his, and for the first time in months things felt almost normal. It was so good to see her.

            In the elevator on the way up to the apartment, Foggy started having what he was sure was a mild cardiac event. He was sweating buckets, his hands shaking, his palm slick against Karen’s but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He couldn’t tell if she was shaking as well or if her bag trembled on her shoulder because that was the arm he clung to. Jessica was freakishly calm, totally unruffled, as though she reunited people with their dead best friends every other week.

            She told them again how messed up his senses were, that he couldn’t tell what was happening around him like he used to. Her tone clearly indicated the problem was more than just physical. She warned them that he probably wouldn’t believe they were real at first – there were still trace hallucinogens in his blood – and feeling your heartbeat helped ground him. Apparently none of the psychos in IGH could recreate a person’s heartbeat in their psychedelic torturey acid trips.

            At this point Karen made a small sound somewhere between a sob and a tiny scream and held Foggy’s hand tighter. He registered dimly that he may have broken a small bone in there somewhere, but the pain was as inconsequential as noticing it was lashing rain on a day you’d already decided to spend indoors.

            The elevator stopped. The doors dinged open with a posh-sounding voice saying something Foggy’s ringing ears couldn’t pick up. Jessica led them to the door of the apartment, only about six steps from the elevator but it may as well have been a mile. Every step left Foggy’s stomach further behind, put more pressure on his struggling lungs to suck in enough air. He felt light-headed. Dizzy. Karen’s hand was all that kept him on his feet.

            He didn’t even register the fact the door had a thumbprint reader to open it. Didn’t notice how thick it was, how heavy. How serious the locks were. How nice it was inside. How still.

            He really didn’t think he’d be this numb. An explosion could go off right next door and he wouldn’t so much as flinch.

           Okay bad analogy.

           Jessica gestured to a closed door. Foggy stared at it, waiting for it to open itself and thoroughly terrified that it would. With an emphatic eye roll, Jessica pushed past them and opened the door, calling out to someone inside whose response was too quiet to catch. Then Jessica was half-glaring, half-smiling at them on the threshold, and Karen was pulling him forward and then he was in the door and Matt was sitting up in the double bed looking up at them as though he could see them standing there.

           And Foggy couldn’t move. Or speak. Even breathe. Everything just ...

            _It was Matt._

           Karen’s fingers slid out of his grip and he watched her half-run to Matt, gasping his name. Matt froze on the bed, his mouth snapping shut, his shoulders tensing. Karen stopped short, taking in the shaky mask concealing his obvious fear. She set her handbag down on the floor and spoke quietly, her voice shaking slightly with unshed tears.

           “Matt? Matt, it’s me. It’s –” she sniffed – “it’s Karen.”

           Foggy could hear her wide smile. Could imagine the tears blurring her vision. Why couldn’t he move?

           Matt’s fists were white around handfuls of sheets. They were shaking. Slowly, carefully, Karen laid her fingers over his pale knuckles. The gasp that shocked free of his lips didn’t belong to Matt, surely. It was far too timid, somehow, too ... afraid. Karen’s fingers closed around his hand and Matt’s sightless eyes were fixed on the point of contact as she gently pulled his fingers free of the bedsheets and raised it to her face. She held it there, against her cheek, her painted nails iridescent against the drab white of the bandages covering his forearm.

           From where he tried to cut a tracking device from his arm. And almost bled to death. Possibly on purpose.

           What if Jessica hadn’t found him?

           Why the _fuck_ couldn’t he move?!

           Foggy just stood there, silent and staring, as Matt raised his other hand to rest against Karen’s other cheek. She sat on the bed beside him, tears shaking her breath, the glimpse of her smile dazzling.

           “It’s me,” she whispered, pushing Matt’s hair back from his face and cradling his cheek. “It’s me.”

           “K-Karen?” It was another desperate, un-Matt-like gasp but this time it was joy that shook the syllables, not fear. The sound cut right through Foggy. That voice. He had been so sure he would never hear that voice again and there it was. The best sound in the world. Then the corner of Matt’s mouth turned up in a smile and it was Matt. It was definitely Matt. That was Matt. Right there. Alive. Smiling. Pulling Karen into a tight hug and holding on to her as though she were gravity itself and if he let her go he would just float away.

           “I’ll be on the couch,” Jessica muttered somewhere behind him as Karen whispered Matt’s name over and over with pure wonder in her voice. “Napping.” Her footsteps retreated and Karen was crying and holy shit so was Matt and this was real, Matt was alive, this wasn’t some dream or drunken fantasy or whatever. It was real.

           Foggy finally breathed. One deep, purifying breath that filled every part of him and was a balm to the deep fissures carved into his heart. He felt ... whole. The Ache suddenly wasn’t so achy. He beamed at his two favourite people, each clinging to the other as though afraid they’d disappear, blinking away his tears and simply basking in this one perfect moment. All the crap of the last two years suddenly didn’t matter. All that mattered was his chosen family was finally together again.

           Was it possible to faint from happiness? ‘Cause if so, he was in trouble.

           Karen pulled away from Matt, holding his face in her hands again and tilting it to kiss his forehead with such tenderness Foggy felt like an intruder just watching. She looked over her shoulder at him, tear tracks flanking her splitting grin.

           “Foggy?”

           Matt’s eyes were searching instantly, his briefly relaxed posture once again rigid.

           “I-is he here?” he whispered to Karen, taking her hand in his.

           She glanced from Matt to Foggy with that smile and they could’ve been in their office, in Nelson and Murdock, just joking around as they always did.

           “Yeah, he’s here. Standing in the doorway looking like a little kid seeing Santa for the first time.”

           Matt gave a little chuckle that almost sounded hysteric. Foggy worked his mouth, his lips already curling around his ready quip, but he couldn’t make the words come. He was too busy staring at his best friend.

           “Foggy?” Karen prompted, her tone gentler now, more compassionate than mocking. “You wanna, like, breathe?”

           “Huh, yeah,” he half-gasped and suddenly the spell was broken. His smile vanished, the tears surged like the Flood, his paralysed muscles broke free and he was almost running to them. Karen spun over the bed, sitting on Matt’s other side to make space, one hand still on his shoulder as he flinched at the sudden movement. Foggy barely registered the apprehension on his old partner’s face. He just crashed into the bed and pulled him into a hug that could never be tight enough and he was sobbing like a little kid.

           “Matt, Matt, oh my god. Matthew, Matt.” He crushed him into his chest, too focused on the fact that he was alive, right here, in his arms, even though there was a headstone with his name on it right beside his father’s in a miserable cemetery, to notice how Matt froze against him.

           For maybe three seconds. Then his thin arms wrapped around Foggy like a vice and he buried his face in Foggy’s shoulder and he was shaking just as much, crying like a baby just as much.

           “Foggy.” It was a strangled groan and it held in its shaking syllables all the grief and pain and regret and joy and relief that was cascading through Foggy’s heart like a category five hurricane.

           “I really missed you, buddy,” he cried into Matt’s shoulder, holding him tighter still. Matt didn’t answer – maybe couldn’t – he just held on every bit as fiercely, as desperately.

           Matt had never hugged him like this before. Matt’s affection was always careful, always brief; a one-armed hug, a muttered compliment, a quiet, tight-lipped smile. He had never ... He had never held him like this before. That, more than anything, told Foggy how much his friend had changed since they had embraced in the precinct before he had disappeared to go save Manhattan.

           The noble idiot.

           Matt tensed. Coughed. A faint groan escaped his clenched teeth. Foggy drew back, holding him at arm’s length.

           “You good?”

           “Yeah – ribs,” he said tightly, his smile more pained now but that just made it more Matt.

           “Shit, sorry.” Then Foggy pulled him back into a more injury-friendly embrace. He spied Karen beaming at them and wiping tears from her eyes and he waved her forward. With a soft, tinkling laugh, she wrapped her arms around the two of them, resting her head against Matt’s and letting out a deep, happy sigh that Foggy felt about summed up their little reunion huddle.

           It was a long time before any of them were ready to let go. Eventually Matt’s exhaustion broke the embrace as he needed to lie back. Karen had tissues in her handbag and handed them out while utterly failing to keep her face straight.

           “I can’t believe this is real,” Foggy half-laughed, shifting his weight on the bed.

           “Me neither,” Matt sighed sheepishly. “I ... didn’t know you guys, em, that you’d ...”

           “Found out?” Karen offered. “Jessica told us like an hour ago.”

           Matt shook his head, his gaze aimed at his lap, where he was idly rubbing his thumbs over the back of Karen’s hand. His feet were squeezed between the other two and Foggy kept his hand on his shin, half because he thought it would help, and half because he just could.

           “Come,” Matt finished quietly.

           There was a beat of dead silence as Foggy exchanged a disbelieving glance with Karen.

           “Why the hell would we not come?” he asked, incredulous.

           Matt shrugged one shoulder.

           “Uh-uh, Murdock. Speak.”

           That got him a weak smile. He shrugged again. “Just ... would’ve understand if you didn’t want to see me.”

           “You know we’ve thought you were dead all this time, right?” Karen clarified.

           “Yeah, yeah I know.”

           “Then I’m lost.”

           “Yeah, me too. Dude, we missed you like crazy. Why wouldn’t we be ecstatic to see you? Which we are, by the by.”

           Matt kept his face hidden and said nothing for a long moment. Then, in a voice choked with captive tears, “I’m really glad you guys are here.”

           “Back atcha, buddy.”

           “Damn straight.”

           With a heavy sigh Matt slumped back into the headboard, his head _thump_ ing into the wood. Karen scooched over to sit by his side, looping her arm through his and playing with his fingers. She laid her head on his shoulder as though this was just the end of a night out, crashing in one of their apartments and chatting until they finally accepted it was time to sleep.

           “Look, Matt,” Foggy began, not entirely sure how to phrase this, but Matt cut him off.

           “I’m so sorry.”

           “I – what?”

           His face was scrunched up like it had been that godawful day Foggy had found out about his other life and this time there was no anger to protect him from the un-Matt-likeness of it. This time the breathless, shaking words, may as well have been knives sent right through his heart.

           “I’m s-so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

           As one, Foggy and Karen reached for him, half-hugging, half-rubbing soothing circles into his clothes.

           “Matt,” Karen said, her voice gentle and kind, “It’s okay, it’s okay –”

           “No – I – it’s – I’m sorry, I –”

           “Matt, buddy, we’re not mad. Really, we’re not.”

           “But I – you were right, I shouldn’t’ve gone in there, but I –”

           “But you had to,” Foggy interrupted calmly. “Look, Matt. I need you to hear this, okay? You got those superears turned on?”

           “They’re not so super anym –”

           “Shut up. Just listen to me, okay?” He waited until he got an apprehensive nod. “Good.” Foggy took a deep breath, a flicker of anxiety squirming in his gut. “Look, I’ve had a lot of time to think since you, y’know, died and all.”

           “Foggy,” Karen admonished quietly.

           “What! We freaking _buried_ him, Karen! Y’know, minus the body –”

           “Foggy, you are _not_ helping,” she shot back, her eyes on Matt.

           Giving his head a little shake, he tried to reign in his babbling. “Right. Sorry, man. But look, I spent a lot of time thinking about why you went in there. Why you stayed in there. And yeah, I was pissed off because I damn well told you so, but I gotta say, it’s hard to be angry with a dead guy. Especially,” he added, his voice dropping to a more serious mumble. He needed another breath for this next bit. Oh, boy.

           “Especially when you realise how all that stuff you were so mad about isn’t as important as you thought at the time. I think ... I think I finally get it, Matt. The whole Daredevil thing. That doesn’t mean I’m a hundred per cent okay with it, but I get that it’s just ... part of you. That you need it. And maybe even more importantly, that we do too. All of us. The whole city. And – shit, you’re crying. I thought that would be comforting somehow, shit, I’m sorry, buddy, I don’t ...”

           He stopped himself as Matt shook his head. He reached out for Foggy’s hand and held it tightly, one scabbed fingertip pressing into his pulse.

           Okay so maybe those were happy tears?

           “I mean it, Matt,” he said softly, watching his best friend’s face shift through about eighteen different emotions over the course of three deep breaths. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished you were back with us – how many times I wished Karen was right and you had somehow survived that explosion. Incidentally,” he muttered in an aside to Karen, “I will never doubt your powers again. Anyway, Matt, they’re right about the whole bargaining stage. And do you know what? The whole vigilante thing – while still stupid – stopped being the reason you died, in my head. You died because you need to save people. It’s just ... who you are. Like Claire. You just ... can’t stand by. And buddy, you have no idea how proud that makes me. Even if it also gives me the occasional heart attack.”

           He squeezed the bandaged hand and felt a tentative but strengthening pressure build in return.

           “You’re wrong,” he breathed, eyes swimming.

           “He’s really not, Matt,” Karen half-chuckled, not understanding the despair contorting Matt’s features, why his jaw was clenched so tensely.

           “No.” It was almost a growl. “No, I’m not him. Not anymore. I’m ... less.”

           “What, because your senses aren’t working right?” Karen snapped, sitting up and levelling him with a withering frown he was lucky he couldn’t see. “Bullshit, Matt. Jessica told us what those shitheads did to you and it was – horrible, truly, just – beyond fucked up. You’ve been through hell, Matt. And yes, that’s going to change you, but if you think for one second it’s going to stop you being ... _you_ , then you’re wrong.”

           She shifted her weight, clearly gearing up. Foggy sat back and squeezed Matt’s shin, partly to comfort but mostly in sympathy. That Miss Page had a way of talking sometimes.

           “I know they hurt you, I know they screwed with your senses. But that’s not who you are, Matt, that’s how you see is all. You’re still the guy who stands up for others, who takes a scared woman home and gives her your shirt and makes her feel safe and protected and ... at home. You’re still the guy who runs _towards_ the screaming and the gunfire because he knows he can help. Foggy – hand me my bag.”

           Fearing her wrath, he snatched it from the floor in record time. She dug into its cavernous depths for a few seconds, then pressed something into Matt’s hand.

           “Nothing they could ever do to you could change that.” she said, more quietly now. “You’re still who you’ve always been, Matt. You’re still Matt Murdock.”

           Matt held the small object carefully, as though afraid it would dissolve into dust.

           It was his old glasses. Complete with one cracked ruby lens.

           Foggy was suddenly very glad Matt’s hearing was on the fritz because he was sure he would have picked up on how his heart sort of trembled at the sight of those old frames.

           “Have you been carrying those around with you ever since ...?” he asked Karen, his voice an awed whisper. Luke had found the bag of clothes two days after. Foggy hadn’t been able to open it for three weeks.

           “Every day,” she answered simply, not making eye contact. Putting a hand on Matt’s wrist, she said it again, her voice low and sincere and heartbreakingly sweet. “Every day.”

           Matt was still for a long moment. Then his fingers curled slowly into a fist around his glasses, his head shaking.

           “But I couldn’t help them,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I tried but I just f-failed. Over and over.”

           “What are you talking about?”

           “I could hear them.” He was shaking now, his hands balled into fists. “Every day. I heard them scream and I – I couldn’t, I ...” He took a shuddering breath that dislodged a single tear from his lashes. “I felt her die. I couldn’t save her.”

           Oh. _Oh._

           Fuck.

           Karen was faster. She pulled Matt against her, tucking his head under her chin and holding him close as she caught Foggy’s eye over his shaggy head. She had understood too.

           Matt wasn’t just talking about IGH.

           “I should be dead!” he spat suddenly, curling in on himself and breaking Karen’s hold, his voice thick with a supressed shout. “I should’ve died in that pit, with her, then none – none of this – there wouldn’t be – she’d still – be – here –!”

           His fists were in his hair now, shaking the long strands as the words cut him from the heart. Strangled half-groans crawled through his gritted teeth and he was in a ball now, trembling and gasping and Foggy just flat out _snapped._

           He took hold of Matt’s shoulders and shook him out of the foetal position – which quickly transpired to be a terrible move because now Matt looked scared as well as anguished as his hands flew out to push into Foggy’s chest, the stance cautionary, defensive. Trying not to think about how he’d never really seen Matt scared before today, Foggy grabbed onto his anger and let the guilt take a freaking number.

           “I swear to god, Matthew, if you ever say shit like that again I don’t care how ninja-y you are, I will _kick_ your _ass!”_

           “Foggy!” He didn’t even spare Karen a glance.

           “You think you should’ve died down there? Why, ‘cause of Elektra? Because you couldn’t save an evil corporation-full of people while you were _being tortured?_ Because it’s your job to save _everyone_ but god forbid anyone’s allowed save _you?_ Matt, look at me!” He waited, fuming, until the dark eyes were aimed at his jaw. “You made me a promise. Do you remember? You promised me I wouldn’t lose you. And for six _godawful_ months I thought you’d broken it. Someday I might tell you how shitty it is to live without your best friend, knowing you helped kill him, knowing you wasted fucking _months_ being pissed off over stuff that doesn’t _fucking_ matter in the end! I thought you were dead, Matt,” he said slowly and clearly, making sure every word got through whatever haze was clinging to those chocolate eyes. “And today I get a miracle I didn’t even believe in enough to really wish for – you’re alive. You’re here, now!” He shifted his grip on Matt’s shoulders, emphasising his words. “Somehow I get a second chance! Somehow – after everything, after – after all this time, you –” He took a sharp breath and forged on, his anger spluttering into something far less impressive as another battalion of tears made it over the no-man’s land of his lashes.

           “Somehow you still kept your promise.” He could hardly breathe around the hot pressure in his chest. “So don’t you say you should’ve died, Matt. Don’t you do that. Because this, this right here?” He tightened his grip. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. _You_ are the best. Goddamn. Thing.”

           The hand over Foggy’s heart shook against his shirt. The fingers slowly curled into fists, the material bunching as it was pulled, the glasses straining in his other hand. Matt’s eyes were as naked as Foggy has ever seen them, and even though they couldn’t make eye contact, something new past unsaid between them. With a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagged beneath Foggy’s grip.

           And a second later, Matt slumped forward into his arms with a quiet sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more to come but the next chapter may be a day or two in publishing because life is busy and I may need to take the weekend for sleeping. Your comments are giving me LIFE and you are all wonderful. Author out!


	15. Words to Heal and Words to Deal

            He’d heard this thing once that if you ever wanted to know you were dreaming one of the ways to figure it out was to check your watch. Because time doesn’t time well in dreams – you can check your watch and it’ll say it’s 3:42pm and then check again in like two seconds and it’s 6:29am. Or the numbers and hands are replaced by weird, possibly-Egyptian hieroglyphic things, and that’s how you can tell you’re dreaming. Foggy had tested it a few times when his dreams were getting a bit too creepy, like that one where he was playing Halo with the Hulk and kicking his ass and then an uncooked Thanksgiving turkey waddled into the room to remind them to let the cat out and then the cat was a dog and it got lost and Foggy was so upset he tanked his SATs. It helped train yourself in lucid dreaming too, so of course Foggy had spent several frustrating nights trying to find that sweet spot between knowing he was dreaming and learning to fly and realising he was dreaming and ruining it by jolting awake.

            The point was, Foggy was actively avoiding checking his watch because, while he _knew_ he wasn’t dreaming, on the off chance that he was he didn’t want to risk waking up just yet. So he had no idea how long they’d been talking before exhaustion overcame Matt and he dozed off in Karen’s arms, his head cradled against her shoulder and his legs stretched over Foggy’s lap. Long enough for the three of them to slip back into the old banter that made those months in Nelson and Murdock so special. They didn’t talk about recent histories. None of them mentioned anything about old nightly habits or new jobs or really anything remotely sensitive. In fact they mostly just made fun of Foggy for being back with Marci and trying to get her to stop calling him Foggy Bear at work. And Matt’s hair. Matt’s hair gave them a good half hour of broody anime references and hobo model jabs and a string of truly cutting blind jokes that seemed to erase years of stress from his smarmy little face. And then Foggy had tried to make one and was instantly confronted with two mock-offended faces, an extremely awkward silence, and Karen’s almost straight-faced,

            “That is so not cool, Foggy.”

            He had ducked his head in mock anger and muttered, “You guys suck,” while internally he recreated the Moses Supposes dance from _Singin’ In the Rain._

            Not that he had any frame of reference, but as far as reunions with dead best friends went, this was a pretty great one. His cheeks ached from smiling.

            “I can’t believe this happened,” he said quietly, watching Karen’s fingers twirling a lock of Matt’s hair from where he had flopped across the bed. “This morning I was just ...”

            “Getting through another day?” she offered.

            “Yeah, yeah pretty much.” He almost laughed as he remembered. “I was procrastinating one of my cases ‘cause it was reminding me of this weirdo.” He bumped his knee under Matt’s legs.

            “What was the case?”

            He shook his head. “Just some emancipation deal. Kid was getting beat to shit by his foster dad.” Karen rose her eyebrows at him. “No, I mean, it just reminded me of Matt and that Stick guy that taught him to fight.”

            “He never said much about him.”

            “Did he ever say much about anything?” he countered dryly.

            She grinned. “Touché.”

            Silence slid between them, filling the space with all the things they weren’t saying. The awkwardness settled in his chest, twisting and mutating in a hot tangle that pulsed angrily with every breath. Unable to stand it, he heaved himself back into a sitting position and cleared his throat, trying and failing to dislodge the lump there.

            “It’s, em ... it’s good to see you again,” he said softly, staring fixedly at one of Matt’s socks. It had little sexually confident cartoon devils on it. Which was hilarious. Foggy made a mental note to inform Matt about them in detail later but for now the humour was a distant flicker against a burgeoning frown.

            “Yeah. Yeah, it’s good to see you too, Foggy.”

            He nodded at the sexy devils, not sure if she meant it.

            “You okay?”

            He nodded harder, the frown deepening. Then shook his head.

            “Is it because I gave him the suit?” Wow, he did not expect his voice to be that steady. Neat.

            “What?” He couldn’t look at her. That tone wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t get to be defensive, right?

            Wrong.

            “I gave him the suit and we lost him and then I lost you too.”

            He didn’t think he’d miss the other silence.

            “Foggy, that’s not –”

            He turned to her. “Just don’t lie to me, okay? Just ... don’t.”

            Her eyebrows did that crinkle thing. The totally unfair crinkle thing.

            When she didn’t say anything, his tongue missed the ‘play it cool’ vibe he was going for and blurted,

            “You blamed me, right? I mean, that’s why?”

            Her fingers stilled in Matt’s hair and she wrapped her arms around his chest as though he might vanish. When she spoke, it was to his shoulder.

            “I don’t blame you, Foggy. I never did.”

            He snorted. “Sure, Karen.”

            “No,” she said, her tone firmer as she met his gaze. “Really. He’d have gone in there with or without it. It’s better you gave him his armour. For all we know that could’ve been what saved him.”

            “You ... you’re serious?” he asked cautiously, waiting for the trap to spring.

            “Of course I’m serious. I never blamed you. I just ...”

            “Couldn’t be around me.”

            “Yeah.” The guilt pulled her eyebrows up in the middle, making her look suddenly miserable. “I’m sorry, Foggy. I just ... ran. It was too hard.”

            “It was hard for me too, you know,” he said quietly, not quite able to make eye contact. “You weren’t the only one who loved him.”

            “I know.”

            “I mean ... I love you too, Karen,” he muttered to the sexy devils. “And it really sucked without you. It was like I lost both my best friends all at once and it just ...”

            “I’m so sorry, Foggy.” Oh no, she was starting to cry. He was not qualified for this. “I shouldn’t’ve run, I just ... I dunno, it’s what I do. Seeing you, it just ... hurt.”

            “But carrying around his glasses didn’t?” he asked, an accidental bite sharpening his tone.

            Her unfairly massive eyes sought his. “You’re right. I was a huge jerk. I shouldn’t have cut you off.”

            “I had to read about that bomb nut in your columns,” he whispered, feeling his throat tightened with remembered fear. “And when I called to see how you were you wouldn’t even pick up.” He turned his slightly blurred gaze to her. “You could’ve died. And you still wouldn’t even take my call.”

            “I know.” She sniffed. One tear leapt from her lashes onto her cheek and rolled frantically down as though being chased by a crazy ex. “I’m a piece of shit, I know. I’m horrible, I just – I needed –” She stopped herself and took a deep breath, holding Matt tighter. “I’m just a mess. But I’m sorry, Foggy.”

            He held out a hand and she took it, squeezing gratefully.

            “I’m sorry too. And you’re not horrible you’re just ... Actually you’re a lot like Matt. He can’t handle emotions too well either.” That earned him a shaky smile. “Just ... can we be friends again? I really missed you, Karen.”

            She blinked away another platoon of skipping tears and smiled, nodding. “If you can forgive me then hell yeah. I really missed you too, Counsellor.”

            He returned her smile and squeezed her fingers again. “I forgive you. You forgive me?”

            “For what?”

            “For not hunting you down and making sure you were getting your daily recommended dose of hugs and bad puns and stuff.”

            “Yeah,” she chuckled. “I think I can forgive that.”

            “Good.”

            Foggy took a deep breath and it felt like the first time in half a year that his lungs just expanded and filled without any passive-aggressive bullshit.

            “You know, I em, went to his apartment a few weeks ago.”

            Foggy looked up, releasing her hand. “To Matt’s? Why?”

            She shrugged the shoulder Matt hadn’t kidnapped as a pillow. “After that whole thing with Frank –”

            “You have no idea how upsetting it is to me that you’re on first name terms with that maniac.” She raised a terrifying eyebrow. “But of course I’d never mention that ‘cause he’s your friend! You’re creepy, murdery, super-violent –”

            “Foggy.”

            “Sorry. You went to Matt’s apartment.”

            “Yeah. I guess I just ... The whole Frank thing just kinda brought it all back. So I went to Matt’s place, thinking I’d just ask whoever lived there now if I could look around or something. But no one was there. I even tried the roof access, but it was locked.”

            “Oh, Danny bought it.”

            “Danny Rand? Why?”

            Foggy shrugged. “I dunno, I was really wasted when we had the conversation. A couple weeks after, y’know, and I got totally pissed and ended up in Matt’s apartment, kinda just ...” He was blushing. Ah screw it, he’d already cried like five times today, what’s another embarrassing anecdote? “I just wanted to ... smell him? I know it’s weird –”

            “No, it’s not,” she said, grinning widely. “That’s why I went too.”

            Phew, okay, not as embarrassing then. “When I was there I was kinda rambling at the walls, you know me, and then the roof door opens and for one second I think it’s Matt and I have about three heart attacks in a row but it was Danny Rand. Apparently he’s been going out on the streets at night – which,” he said slowly, catching that Karen Page gleam in her eye, “you already knew about?”

            “I may have run into him one night.”

            “Please tell me the context didn’t involve more mace.”

            She laughed. “No, no it didn’t. But he didn’t tell me he’d bought Matt’s apartment?”

            “Yeah, no, he did! He’s pretty much left it as is but he’s been using it for, I dunno, showers and midnight munchies I guess?”

            “Why wouldn’t he just, I dunno, by a permanent private room somewhere?”

            “He said he was trying to honour Matt. Keeping his home and all.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah. For a billionaire he’s a pretty nice guy.”

            She _mm_ ’d in agreement as she pressed a kiss into Matt’s hair, one thumb stroking his chest. “He’ll be glad to be home.”

            “Yeah. Like it never happened, almost.”

            As one they looked to the long bandage covering Matt’s right forearm, the inside blotted with patches of red.

            “Or not.”

            Karen frowned suddenly and looked down at Matt.

            “What?”

            She rubbed two fingers along his tshirt, her frown deepening.

            “Does ...” she began slowly. “Matt has scars. Doesn’t he?”

            Foggy snorted. Then realised she was serious and swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah, he’s got a bunch. That black ninja gear he had before the suit did nothing to protect him.”

            Her fingers traced the unseen ridge through the shirt, the crease in her brow starting to look permanent.

            “How many is a bunch?”

            “I haven’t exactly counted them, Karen.”

            She looked up at him. “That’s why you wouldn’t let me help get him out of his shirt at the precinct, isn’t it?”

            “Well ... yeah. Figured you didn’t need to see ... that.”

            She was silent for a long moment, her expression darkening. When she finally spoke, it was in a resigned whisper.

            “He’ll never be safe, will he? We’re always going to worry about him, aren’t we? This could happen again.”

            Foggy heaved a weighty sigh. “Yep. He’s always gonna be the guy to run into the burning building to save the little babies. But,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe that’s a good thing. Not that he gets himself hurt,” he added quickly, seeing her appalled expression. “But that we worry. I think he needs that.”

            Karen kissed his hair again, this time with a smile.

            A soft knock on the door interrupted the quiet moment. Suddenly remembering he hadn’t so much as seen Trish let alone _thank_ her, Foggy had a brief crisis trying to extricate himself from Matt’s legs without waking him and succeeding only in gingerly half-lifting one calf before Karen called for the knocker to come in. And blatantly silent-laughing at Foggy’s entirely understandable predicament.

            It was Claire, looking – wow. Looking seriously done with the world. Not to mention tired. But damn, was it good to see her.

            “Hey!” he greeted happily – then whipped his head around to look at Matt, who, thankfully, only stirred and shifted his head to tuck his nose under Karen’s chin. “Hey,” he repeated in a more super-ear-friendly whisper.

            “Hi guys.” Claire’s smile briefly lifted her haggard expression. Kinda like the sun peeking through heavy rainclouds for a moment.

            _Okay, Nelson,_ he thought dryly. _Enough romanticising the non-Marci womenfolk. Just ‘cause you’ve had the mother of all emotional days does not mean you can – oh shit, what did she just say? Oh, it’s cool, it was to Karen. Man, I’m wiped._

            “How you guys taking the whole ...” Claire gave up finding the words and just gestured to the slumbering vigilante.

            Karen and Foggy’s answering wordless grumbles were almost harmonised.

            “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

            “Hey Claire.” Foggy reached out for her gloved hand and squeezed it. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for him. If there’s any way I can make it up to y–”

            She cut him off by kissing his forehead, her smile softening her tired features. “You don’t owe me anything, Foggy. He’s my friend too. Why wouldn’t I help?”

            Hopefully he wasn’t blushing as much as he felt he was ‘cause boy would that be _embarrassing._

            “I just came in to check on him. Jess, uh, told me about last night.”

            The mood instantly dropped as the weight of the situation broke through the temporary supports of banter and relief that had kept it propped from their chests all afternoon.

            “Yeah,” Karen murmured, and pressed another kiss onto Matt’s head.

            Claire gently reached for the bandaged arm and drew it carefully from Matt’s middle. His brow twitched minutely but he didn’t stir. She started unwrapping the bandages but then paused, looking up at her little audience.

            “You guys might not want to see this.”

            Foggy snorted. “I’ve seen worse, Claire.”

            “Me too.” Foggy glanced at Karen, wondering what she meant. Oh, maybe she meant that time he was shot in the shoulder. Yeah. Or that Fisher guy she was accused of murdering. Or any of the Punisher’s – god, how did this woman sleep at night?

            “Suit yourselves.”

            She pulled back the layers of bloodied bandages with practiced fluidity, somehow keeping the perfect angle and tension to stop the semi-congealed blood from being yanked off in gooey clumps. When she finished, she let out a low whistle, shaking her head.

            “I never thought he’d do something _that_ stupid.”

            “Me neither,” Karen whispered, her voice faint. Foggy just stared at the angry, swollen slash half-hidden in deep, crimson blood. The stitches looked painful, so spikey and haphazard, a far cry from the regimented lines he had seen before.

            Matt had done that to himself. God.

            “It’s not so bad, really,” she muttered, more to herself than to them, Foggy thought. “I mean, for a drunk PI they’re ... kinda neat? I won’t need to redo them at least.”

            She gathered the soiled bandages into her gloved hands and shooed them into a bin, grabbing a fresh roll and something that smelled antiseptic-y from an ironing board in the corner. Foggy couldn’t quite draw his gaze from Matt’s arm. There were these ragged red abrasions all over his wrist that couldn’t have been from last night. He stared at them, frowning, trying to force them to make sense.

            Then he remembered what Jessica had said about the tables and the electrocutions and the super-senses-ruining procedure and it clicked. Matt had been tied down. A lot. And he had fought back. A lot. Even after his wrists had bled.

            Now seemed like a really good time to examine the little sexy devils again and make sure his lungs were lunging correctly.

            Claire returned and rubbed an antiseptic wipe into the long cut, laid a thinish strip of gauze over it, then wrapped the whole thing up with the efficiency of an Egyptian mummifier.

            “How, em, how’s the investigation going?” Karen asked around a very audible lump in her throat as she watched Claire’s work. “If you need any help I’ve got some pull over at the _Bulletin._ ”

            “And Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz is hella at your service,” Foggy added, his own voice only slightly shaking. “IGH must _die.”_

            Claire smiled. “It’s going well, mostly. We’re still flying under the radar, as far as we can tell. We were going to check with Hogarth to see if we’ve enough evidence to bring them down but if you want to take a look at it by all means do. But I should warn you, it’s –”

            “Fucked up?”

            “Very.”

            “I can handle it.”

            “Good. Although we’re thinking taking them down legally might not be enough anymore.”

            “Why not?” Karen shifted her position slightly as Claire released Matt’s wrist after taping the bandages down.

            Claire leaned against the nightstand and heaved a sigh Foggy felt he should patent for vigilante-friend-induced ulcers. “We’ve got a lot of names, but none of them go high enough to make sure they’re shut down for good. They’re smart. There are layers of secrecy and code and all this other bullshit that means if we want to cut the head off this snake, we’re going to have to hack into the main server. Which is in their headquarters. In the CEO’s office, Danny is pretty sure.”

            “So, what, you’re gonna break in to that place?”

            “Well _I’m_ not, but those other idiots are, yeah.”

            “But – what – _illegal!_ ”

            Claire glared at him. Although her little half-smile really sucked the power out of it.

            “As far as the courts will know a bunch of vigilantes broke in on a hunch and dumped the info we need to take them down on the right desk.”

            “That is really not how the law works,” Foggy said quickly, feeling his throat close slightly at this horrible, _horrible_ plan.

            “But it’s exactly how the media works,” Karen said with a smile that could only be honestly described as _pure evil._

            Foggy glared at her. “You cannot be serious.”

            “It worked with Union Allied.”

            “No it didn’t! It really, really didn’t! They just reshuffled their junk and changed names! And you spent months bringing them down! Have you _forgotten?”_

            “No, Foggy, surprisingly enough I haven’t forgotten how it ended with the people who tried to kill me. Twice.”

            Yeah, okay, that tone was fair.

            “But think about it,” she continued earnestly, addressing Claire moreso than him, clearly recognising that she was the more receptive party in this _ludicrously ludicrous plan_. “We break the story in the _Bulletin,_ we make copies of all the evidence under the radar and when the inevitable backlash comes we can say we’ve released or destroyed or whatever’d the evidence and still have all the originals. Then HC&B can go after them and add bribery or blackmail to the list of felonies. It would work, I know it would. And god knows Ellison would be on board.”

            “That is the craziest thing you’ve ever said and that includes that time you said the Helions could beat the Knicks.”

            “Actually,” Claire said slowly, effectively sinking Foggy’s little hope boat that she wouldn’t be on board, “that could work. That would shine too bright a light on them, they wouldn’t have time to hide everything. Like the CEOs and investors and all that shit Luke and the others still need to get.” She was smiling now and it matched Karen’s and Foggy was feeling thoroughly uncomfortable. “I like this plan.”

            Foggy looked from one evil face to the other, then to the falsely-innocent-but-equally-evil sleeping face of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

            “Why is everyone I know insane?”

            “Ambitious,” they corrected him in creepy unison, matching villainous smiles twisting their sneaky lips.


	16. Hope is Healing

            Karen woke from a cosy doze with Matt’s hand still held in hers. The grey light of a cloudy morning slanted through the windows, the curtains hanging uselessly to either side. Foggy was gone, but he must have been the one to spread the blanket over the two of them. She wondered what time it was but her curiosity was not strong enough for her to sacrifice an arm to the icy air outside their warm cocoon.

            Matt was curled on his side, his lips slightly parted and his brow delicately furrowed. His fingers twitched in hers and she smiled. How often had she wished for this? And here he was. Safe, if only for now. She burrowed further into the pillow, giving his bandaged hand a gentle squeeze.

            It was too bright for her to fall asleep again, and besides, she was already too awake. Yesterday had left her drained and exhausted, but she’d slept better than she had in months. Maybe since that night she – since before they caught Fisk. She hadn’t even woken in the night. She felt ... calm. Happy.

            Safe.

            Wow. That was new. And ... nice.

            God. Matt. Listening to his steady breathing, feeling the warmth of his body beside her, the gentle pressure of his hand around hers. It was like spreading soothing ointment over her burned heart, as though she had been wishing for painkillers for months and they had finally kicked in. The great ache that had bored ravines into the plains of her heart was lifting, cool water filling up every painful chasm all at once. It was almost dizzying.

            She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled this much. Really smiled. Willingly. Genuinely.

            If this moment could just last forever, that would be perfect.

            The vague clinking of dishes floated under the door, gently suggesting that the outside world still existed. Somewhere.

            But right now, her world was small. Right now her world was this bed, this happy warmth in her chest, and this miracle of a man lying with his hand in hers.

            This man whose delicate frown was deepening. And whose fingers were twitching more and more frequently. She recognised the tension hardening his features. She squeezed his hand tighter, leaning forward to kiss his knuckles.

            “Matt.” His breath hitched, brow twitching. Eyes flitting wildly underneath their lids. “Matt.”

            With a sharp gasp his eyes snapped open, his entire body rigid.

            “Hey,” she whispered, pressing another kiss into his fingers. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

            “Karen?” He closed his eyes around a heavy exhale that drew the tension from his shoulders. When he opened his eyes again he was looking almost directly into her own, a soft smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Karen.”

            “Hello Mr Murdock.”

            His grin widened. “Hello Miss Page.”

            “How’d you sleep?”

            Shrug. “Fine.”

            She narrowed her eyes at him. “Liar.”

            He huffed a quiet laugh. “Better,” he amended, his chocolate eyes blinking away their secrets and propping up a thin wall of calm.

            “Hmm.” She was unconvinced, but he was too cute to argue with right now. So she just kissed his hand again.

            “Where’s Foggy?”

            She shrugged. Then remembered his senses were screwed up and said, “Dunno. I think he said he had to run by the office.” And figure out how to bring Matthew Michael Murdock back from the dead without landing anyone in jail. But he didn’t need to know about that right now.

            “Oh. Yeah, work. I forgot. Do you need to go?”

            She chuckled. “No. I called Ellison last night. I’m taking a couple days off.”

            His eyebrows raised. “You can do that?”

            “I run the paper,” she whispered jokingly. “Ellison’s just the figure head.”

            “Ah. That makes sense.”

            Wow, she had missed that smile. It was infectious.

            “How you feeling?”

            He chuckled softly and drew their clasped hands to his chest. “Amazing.”

            Damn. She’d forgotten how charming he could be. Unfairly so. Distractingly so.

            “Hey. Don’t do that.”

            “Do what?”

            “Pretend everything’s fine.”

            His brow furrowed. “I think ... I need to.”

            She nodded, running her thumb over the backs of his fingers. “I get that. But do you think you could promise me something?”

            “What?”

            “Actually, maybe more of a deal.”

            “Okay ...?”

            “That week ... you told me you didn’t miss it. That was a lie. And,” she hesitated, wondering if the words would make it past the quivering pain in her chest that had kept them prisoner for years. They couldn’t. “I haven’t been completely honest with you either. About everything. And I regretted that. Not being as open with you as I expected you to be with me.”

            “Like with what?”

            She took a deep breath and wrenched the words from the locked chamber in her heart.

            “Like my brother died when he was sixteen.”

            She felt his heartbeat stutter against the back of her hand. She couldn’t look at him. The silence was freshly sharpened knives scoring along her heart. The space the words had left inside her burned and throbbed and cried to be filled again.

            But then his free hand was on her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone and she looked up automatically and his expression wasn’t pitying, it wasn’t disgusted, it was ... kind. Compassionate. Empathetic.

            “I’m so sorry, Karen. I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been. How hard it is.”

            She couldn’t speak. She could see it in his unfocused eyes. He meant it.

            “Why didn’t you tell me before?” His voice was so soft, so gentle. There wasn’t a hint of accusation. Or blame.

            She shrugged one shoulder, blinking away tears. “He, um ... If I tell people then it’s real, y’know?”

            He nodded, an expression of such understanding on his face that a fresh wave of tears surged over her lashes.

            “I get that.”

            Of course he did. He had never mentioned his dad to her. Foggy had told her about Battlin’ Jack Murdock. After they’d lost Matt.

            “Do you want to talk about it?”

            She shook her head quickly, holding him tighter. A small, knowing smile graced his lips as he inhaled.

            “So,” he began, following a lock of her hair over her jaw and along her neck with his finger. “You wanted to make a deal?”

            She nodded, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with her free hand and taking a steadying breath. “Yeah. Yeah. See ... I think I only realised how much – who I had, when I lost you. I don’t want to waste any more time being angry with you. So how about –” she cleared her throat and forced her lips into a smile. “How about we stop lying to each other about things that matter. Y’know,” she swallowed. “Trust each other.”

            “Yeah.” He grinned, his expression bright and hopeful. If cautious. “I think I can handle that.”

            “So, deal?”

            “Deal.”

            She propped herself up on her elbow and kissed his cheek.

            “Good. Now, how about some breakfast?”

            He blinked in surprise. “Um, yeah. Now you mention it I’m _starving_.”

            She hooshed the sheets off and dropped another kiss on his temple before swinging her legs over the side of the bed, reluctantly breaking contact with him. “Me too. C’mon!”

            He let her help him out of bed, possibly just to keep a hand on her heartbeat. His breath hitched as he tried to straighten his back, pain flickering past his face. She pretended not to notice and pulled his arm over her shoulders, kissing his hand as if she didn’t doubt he could walk unaided. Secretly glad of the excuse to keep holding on to him.

            “I think I smell pancakes,” he muttered, trying not to lean as heavily on her as he clearly needed to. There was a distinct shuffle to his steps. The white of bandages poked above the line of his sagging socks which were decorated with – were those –?

            She snorted.

            “What?”

            Karen clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “Your socks,” she just managed so say.

            “My socks?”

            “Yeah, they –” she sucked in a breath, looping an arm around his middle. “Em, they’re covered in tiny cartoon devils.”

            “They are?”

            “Yep. And, em, they’re ... shall we say, flirtatious?” _Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh!_

            “Flirtatious?”

            “Your socks are covered in tiny sexy devils.”

            He stopped. Turned his head towards her. Oh, oh his face. Oh, it was priceless. Damn it, her phone was by the bed.

            “You’re kidding me.”

            “Nope.”

            “I’m gonna kill Danny.”

            That did it. She burst into a fit of giggles, tears of mirth gathering in her eyes.

            “It’s not funny,” Matt griped, trying to keep a straight face.

            “Oh, mm-hm, totally.”

            “Are you really laughing at a blind guy, Miss Page?”

            “No,” she said in the single most unconvincing tone ever. Then, accepting the futility of composure, said, “I’m laughing at Daredevil. Wearing little sexy devils.”

            Matt fumbled for the doorknob, smirking and shaking his head. Karen watched his fingers search for the handle and the humour drained from her face. He wasn’t faking that. And the bandages covering his almost-suicidal wound were blotched with patches of burgundy. At least he was walking a little steadier now, not leaning on her so much.

            She tried to focus on that silver lining.

            Jessica was sitting at the kitchen island in jeans and a black tank top, licking – ew.

            “Are you eating _raw_ pancake batter?”

            She turned her glare on Karen and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. So?”

            “Nothing, nothing,” she said quickly, holding up a placating hand and biting down on her grin. She led Matt to the stool beside Jessica and half-helped, half-hovered as he slid onto it. “But how about I cook up the rest?”

            Jessica shrugged and plopped the spatula she had been licking back into the bowl. Lovely.

            “Where’s Trish?” Matt asked, tugging the cuffs of his sweatpants down over his socks and trying to be discrete about it.

            “She’s in LA for a couple days. Some award thing. Hey,” she added, a wry smile curling the corner of her mouth. Karen quickly busied herself with finding a pan, holding in another wave of giggles. “What are those?”

            “What are what?” Matt asked innocently.

            Jessica reached forward and tugged the leg of his pants up, revealing the army of cartoon devils. Matt swatted her hand away, blushing furiously and scowling.

            “They’re just socks!”

            Jessica let out a low, drawling chuckle. “Remind me to buy Rand a drink.”

            “So, pancakes!” Karen trilled, grabbing the bowl from the counter and being as loud as possible setting it by the hob.

            “Is that Foggy’s recipe?” Matt asked brightly, clinging to her distraction.

            “Yeah, he made them at an ungodly hour this morning,” Jess moaned. “Woke me up.”

            “He’s ... still alive, isn’t he?” Matt asked seriously.

            “Shut up, Murdock.”

            “Make me, Jones.”

            “Kids, play nice.”

            “Hey, she – what was that?”

            Karen looked around at him. “What was what?”

            “That – can you not hear it?”

            Karen exchanged a raised eyebrow with Jessica.

            “I’m not hearing –”

            “Wait!” His face was lighting up with a frenzied intensity Karen had never seen before. “Jess, give me your hand.”

            “I’m not marrying you.”

            “Shut up! Just, give me your hand!” He reached out for her and she shot Karen another uncertain glance before taking Matt’s hand. He held hers in both of his, concentrating heavily. “Laugh.”

            “What?”

            “Laugh, Jess.”

            She raised disbelieving eyebrow. “How about I just punch you instead?”

            Oddly, Matt broke into a wide grin. He cocked his head to the side. “Say something else sassy.”

            “What am I, a trained monkey? What is with you?”

            Matt’s smile grew. “I can hear you.”

            “Well I’m talkin’ loud!”

            He shook his head, releasing her hand. “No. I can _hear_ you.”

            “What, as in –?”

            Matt turned his now dazzling smile on Karen, reaching out for her. She stepped forward and took his head, tucking her hair behind one ear with the other. Matt sat motionless for a moment, his head tilted, eyes wide, smile beaming.

            “I can hear you.”

            “You can –”

            “Your heartbeats. I can hear your heartbeats.”

            With a last squeeze he released Karen’s hands and got to his feet, taking heavy, controlled breaths. He closed his eyes.

            “Are you serious?” Jessica got to her feet, the stool squeaking against the floor. Matt flinched but kept his eyes shut.

            “Shh.”

            They watched in excited silence as Matt’s brow quivered in concentration. His breathing was slowly calming, his head twitching this way and that as he tuned into god knows what, his eyes flitting madly underneath their lids. A single tear escaped his lashes and trickled down his cheek into the stubble, then on around his jaw to fall into a dark dot on his tshirt.

            “I can hear it.” It was barely a whisper, but every syllable dripped with a relief so profound it almost hurt just to hear it. He opened his eyes to look up into the ceiling he couldn’t see. Or maybe he was looking somewhere a little higher.

            “I can hear my city.”


	17. The Eye of the Hurricane

            The fancy panelling in the elevator was soothingly cold against his forehead. Another mammoth sigh crawled up his throat like the Swamp Creature in the original black-and-white marsh, slithered over his tongue and fell like slimey vampire clones to the floor. Ugh. He really needed to stop watching B-roll horror flicks at 2am. Netflix and insomnia were evil mistresses.

            The doors dinged open and he slouched out. God this morning had been hell. Hogarth had not been on board with his spontaneous vacation idea. And arguing with her was freaking. _Terrifying._ Thank god he was on her good side. Or at least, her side. Ugh. _Ugh._

            But at least now he had the week off to ‘relax’. Not that this IGH shitfest was going to be remotely relaxing, but he wasn’t about to complain. He got to work the case with his partner.

            Karen opened the door. She took in his slumped shoulders and half-hearted smile and pulled him into a hug that improved his day hugely.

            “How’d it go with Hogarth?”

            He groaned dramatically, loosening his tie and shrugging off his blazer.  “There is a reason that woman is the best DA in Manhattan.”

            “That bad?”

            “Oh yeah. Hey, where is everyone?”

            Karen tucked her hair behind one ear, settling herself back at her computer on the kitchen island. “I dunno. Jessica got a text this morning and ran out.”

            “Huh. And Matt?”

            She jerked a thumb to the balcony without glancing up from her laptop. “He’s been out there meditating for an hour.”

            “Huh.” Well his conversational skills were _on fire_ today. “Whatchu up to, concentratey lady?”

            That made her look up. With an expression of withering scorn.

            “‘Concentratey lady’?” she repeated. Aw, he’d missed that look of patient disdain!

            He shrugged, owning it.

            “ _Bulletin_ stuff or Revenge of the Devil stuff?”

            One eyebrow raised, weakening her composure. “‘Revenge of the Devil’?”

            “Well, yeah. We’re getting revenge for Matt.” His eyes widened as another thought occurred to him. “We’re _avenging_ him! We’re the Avengers! Like, the – the Street Avengers! Instead of busting a bunch of aliens and shit we kick evil corporate ass!”

            Aha, she laughed! Point one to Nelson.

            “You are so weird.”

            He tipped an imaginary hat in a half-bow. “Why thank’ee ma’am!”

            She rolled her eyes and gestured for him to sit. “So I tried looking into IGH’s history but no dice, they’re clean. So then, check this,” she tapped into another window, “I started pulling up missing persons files, y’know, cross-referencing with Jane and John Does with injuries similar to Matt’s, and anything that sounded like failed enhancements, aaand,” she drawled, clicking triumphantly into a series of god-awful crime scene and military personnel photos. “I found all of _this.”_

            Foggy leaned closer to the screen and frowned as he scanned the extremely gross details.

            “How long have you been looking into this stuff?”

            She shrugged. “Since about nine?”

            He turned to her, appalled. “You got all this in five hours?”

            She shrugged again, looking a tad self-conscious.

            Foggy shook his head, marvelling. “You are amazing. And creepy as hell.”

            She grinned. “Thanks. You wanna see something else?”

            “Show me.”

            “Here, look.” She grabbed a legal pad by her thigh and flipped a few scribbled pages over. “So I traced a few of the places where these people went missing and look, you can see them travel throughout New York. They started in craic dens and homeless shelters in Hell’s Kitchen right after the Incident – at least, that’s the earliest abduction I can trace – but they’ve taken people from Harlem, Brooklyn, Queens, even from outside the city. And,” she said quickly, her eyes alight with that dog-with-a-bone focus, “I found out that another IGH, a drug, Innovative Growth Hormones, was used in hospitals around the city for years before they just vanished. Patients on those treatment plans reported miraculous recoveries, beating insane odds, and one of the companies that middle-managed the drug was Rand Enterprises.”

            “Danny’s company?”

            “Yeah, but before he came back from, eh, wherever he was –”

            “Mystic dragon land.”

            “Sure, yeah, so his company was getting tons of the stuff delivered and regulating its distribution to private hospitals and labs, including,” she said with an air of impending triumph, “the branch in Westchester where Jessica found Matt!”

            Foggy stared from her frantic writing to her eager face, letting out a long sigh. “I can’t believe you found a trail. That’s amazing, Karen, it’s exactly what we need! If we can expose their whole operation they’ll have nowhere to hide in court!”

            “You think?”

            “Hell yeah! Nice one, Page.” She beamed at him. “Also, just FYI, I am very glad you’ve never turned your reportery skills on me ‘cause _damn,_ you’re creepily good at this.”

            She laughed. “Thanks. So you’re saying if I was to dig into Franklin Nelson I’d find something worth the search?”

            All laughter drained from his face as he remembered a few achingly embarrassing photos on Facebook from his drama club days.

            “No, no, n-no, there’s nothing. Totally nothing, you should never Google me. Ever.”

            She was smiling that evil smile again. Oh crud.

            “Aaaanyway,” he said quickly, getting to his feet with due haste. “I’m gonna go talk to blind guy who can never see me dressed as Danny Zuko.”

            “Danny Zuko –”

            “Leaving!” he sang over her, waving a flamboyant hand as he sidestepped the coffee table and escaped to the balcony, pretending he couldn’t hear her tapping furiously into his dark past.

            Matt sat cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, hands resting palms-up on his knees and a deep red hoodie concealing all the bandages. Foggy pulled up a chair beside him, wincing as it screeched across the planks. Matt flinched but didn’t move. He sat down and fiddled awkwardly with his tie, waiting for Matt to look less guru-on-a-misty-hilltop-y.

            A crease puckered his brow, a wrinkle in his veneer of calm. His eyes were still beneath his lids and his breathing was deep and regular, but his fingertips were twitching almost rhythmically. Feeling awkward just staring, Foggy turned his gaze out to the city, the thousand greys and muted blues that made up the apartment and office buildings he could see, the spark of yellow taxis just visible to his left a welcome splash of colour. Foggy supposed a lot of people would consider this metropolitan vista dreary. Maybe even claustrophobic, with all the sixty-plus stories eating up the skyline. But he just liked how the light winked against the sky scrapers as the clouds shifted. And the invisible thrum of life humming along like a river in a concrete forest. It had been a while since he’d just sat somewhere and really looked at his city. He glanced over to Matt, a small smile sneaking across his lips. Yeah. This city was beautiful.

            Matt inhaled more deeply, breaking his steady rhythm. His eyes opened slowly, his hands sliding into his lap.

            “Hey, buddy. You looked pretty zen there.”

            He did that little half-smile thing that meant he was upset about something as he pulled himself up into another chair, a shimmer of pain briefly twisting the grin into a grimace.

            “You okay?”

            “Yeah, yeah. Just, uh, ribs again.”

            “I thought the meditating thing helped with that?”

            “It does. When I do it right.”

            “Ah.”

            “Mm.”

            Who said male communication was unsophisticated?

            “So, em ... you feelin’ okay?”

            “I’m fine, Foggy.” The half-smile was back. And it was disproportionately infuriating.

            “You know I know that’s bullshit, right?” he said suddenly. “I mean, I know I can’t hear your heartbeat and all but for god’s sake, Matt, I’ve known you like five years.”

            He had the good grace to look shamefaced.

            “I, um ... I could hear Jess and Karen’s heartbeats this morning.”

            “Oh yeah? That’s great!”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay, you look thoroughly under enthused.”

            He snorted. “No, I am, it’s just ...” He heaved an enormous sigh, turning to look in Foggy’s direction. “I’m just tired, man. Everything’s ... It’s like I’ve been underwater for weeks. Or, months, maybe, I don’t know. And now everything’s loud again, or getting there.”

            “I thought you had to focus on letting stuff in?”

            He nodded. “I do, normally. It’s just weird. Like I can’t control the volume like I used to. Some woman in another apartment cut her hand making a sandwich and I thought it was Karen. It’s just ... all mixed up.”

            Foggy reached for his shoulder. “Hey, it’ll get better.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Could you sound more unconvinced? No, seriously, Matt, think about it. I mean, back in my wild and salacious youth –” Matt raised an eyebrow – “shut up. I’d go to clubs and be basically deaf from all the uncing and dropping beats, even the next day.”

            “You went to clubs?”

            “Focus, Matthew. My point is, if my crappy, normal-human ears could get all messed up after a night out – shut _up,_ you’re such a jerk! – then it makes sense that your super-human ears take longer to heal after all the, um, the overstimulation and probes and stuff.”

            Oh shit. Matt clearly didn’t know he knew that.

            “Um, Jessica told us.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah. She figured we should know where you’d been and all. And for some reason she thought you wouldn’t tell us.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Dunno where she got _that_ idea, I mean you’re the most open guy I’ve ever met!”

            Haha, he smiled! Another point to the Fogster.

            “Yeah, I just,” Matt began, shifting his weight self-consciously. “Didn’t want you to have to, y’know. Hear about all that.”

            Foggy clapped a hand on his shoulder again, forcing him to face him so his eyeline was directed at Foggy’s stern face. “I’m looking at you really sternly. Matt, buddy. We _want_ to hear about that stuff. We need to, for god’s sake! You think it was better when you’d come into the office with black eyes and cut lips and we’d think you couldn’t handle living alone? Or that I’d see another bloody bandage on your shoulder and wonder how bad it was, how it got there? Seriously. Matthew. Knowing is better.”

            Matt had dropped his gaze, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “This isn’t the same, Foggy.”

            “Isn’t it? Matt, we can _help._ If you let us. It’s not like we don’t want to. Even if all we can do is sympathise and, I don’t know, help bandage you up, don’t you think we’d want to? Rather than feeling like you didn’t trust us not to freak out? I mean, I can’t speak for Karen per se, but I’d sure as hell like to feel like your best friend again. Or, friend, at least,” he added uncertainly. “I know you have all these crazy punchy people now, but –”

            “Foggy.” Matt found his shoulder and squeezed it. “You’ll always be my best friend.”

            _Don’t cry. DON’T CRY._

            “Thanks, buddy. Same here.”

            “You really, um ... you really think the hearing thing is normal?”

            Foggy grinned. “Well, nothing that happened to you was _normal,_ but yeah, I think so. Besides, you’ve only been out of there for what, eight days? Nine? Give yourself a break, Matt. Even you can’t meditate yourself back to a hundred per cent like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Even superheroes need wreck time.”

            “Foggy, I’m not a –”

            “You sacrificed yourself to _save Manhattan,”_ he cut across him loudly. “Like it or not, buddy, you’re a superhero. Get over it.”

            That got him a semi-amused snort. Meh, he’d take it.

            They sat in silence for a few minutes, just taking in the sights (and sounds) of the city. Foggy’s hellish morning was draining away with every easy breath. He had the whole week off to get his best buddy back on his feet and bring down the sons of bitches who knocked him down in the first place. It would be just like old times. Only this time he knew it was personal.

            “I, um ... I could hear them,” Matt said tentatively, his quiet voice barely rising above the muted din of the streets below.

            Foggy blinked in surprise but didn’t turn to look at him. Murdocks could be easily spooked when expressing emotions. Instead he asked casually,

            “Hear them?”

            “The other prisoners. In IGH.” He cleared his throat. “I could hear them. Every day. I could feel their pain. What was done to them. Hear them beg to die.”

            Foggy couldn’t understand how Matt’s voice could be so steady. “My god, Matt. I ...” What the hell could he say? “That’s ... I don’t have the words for what that is. I’m so sorry.”

            “There was one guy,” Matt said, almost as though to himself. “He was just a kid. Doubt if he was twenty. They tried the serum on him. The one they took from me. I don’t know the kid’s name. They only ever called him Subject Nineteen. But he cried when he died. Calling out for his mom.”

            “Jesus. You heard all that?”

            “I heard everything, Foggy.” Tight anger shook delicately through his words. He was struggling to keep his face impassive, his eyebrows pulling up in the middle and making him look very young. And very sad. “And I couldn’t help them. Not even one goddamn person. I just sat there.”

            “Matt, buddy.” Foggy reached out for his arm, tugging it to make Matt look at him. He didn’t turn his sightless gaze from the city. “You did not ‘just sit there’. They kept you in a _cage_. Drugged up. Seriously Matt, you cannot blame yourself for that. Honestly it’s just stupid. Especially when we both know you would’ve broken everyone out of there in a heartbeat if you hadn’t, y’know, had a frickin’ _building_ fall on you. Matt, look at me.”

            He snorted. “I can’t, Fog.”

            “Ha ha. Look at me, you big jerk.”

            He turned his sorrowful eyes on Foggy. “You did everything you could. You survived. And all the others, they’ll be freed soon, too. I know you’re Catholic and guilt is like air for you, but seriously, buddy. This is not on you. This is on those IGH bastards. And only them.”

            Matt opened his mouth to say something Foggy already knew would make his eyes roll, but then he suddenly sat straighter in his seat, his eyes flicking out over the balcony as he leaned forward. His expression had shifted from ‘neglected puppy’ to ‘alert guard dog’ in a heartbeat, his head tilting slightly to the side.

            “Matt? What is it?”

            “Jess. Luke and Danny. Something’s happened.”


	18. Déjà Vu. Again.

            Matt buried his limp after two steps, flinging the door open and striding inside, his face a mask of concentration. Foggy followed, his stomach sinking. They couldn’t have one day sans drama?

            “What’s going on?” Karen said, automatically getting to her feet, eyes wary.

            “Something’s wrong with the others,” Foggy explained while Matt stood motionless beside the coffee table, staring intently at the floor to his left.

            “What do you mean?”

            Foggy shrugged. “That’s all Lassie told me.”

            Matt was definitely ignoring them if he was gonna let _that one_ slide.

            Karen threw him a withering glare and stepped closer to Matt, raising a hand to touch him but thinking better of it.

            “Matt, what is it?”

            He half-shook his head, his brow furrowing. He hadn’t looked this focused since they tried to get their heads around Federal Courts in second year at Columbia.

            “They’re in the elevator,” he muttered, squinting at nothing. “They’ve been in a fight.”

            “How can you tell?”

            “High adrenaline, sweat. Fresh blood. Danny’s cut above his eye.” He tilted his head more to the side like old TV antennae searching for a better signal. “I think Luke’s shirt is ripped. They’re debating whether to tell me about the attack.”

            Foggy wasn’t sure whether to laugh or investigate the possibility of investing in a portable hermetically sealed space suit. That was _creepy._

            “Who attacked them?” For a slight woman in a fitted dress, Karen Page could look remarkably intimidating. As though she was ready to reach into her handbag and pull out a handgun or a bunch of explosive lipsticks and flat out destroy anyone who got near Matt. Foggy took a moment to appreciate being on her good side.

            Matt grimaced, his frown etched deep into his forehead. “They’re not saying. But it was Jess’ apartment. Luke thinks they shouldn’t even be here.” He paused, listening. “Jess disagrees.” Judging by his slight smile Foggy guessed Jessica wasn’t so much disagreeing as verbally annihilating.

            “Here they come.”

            Foggy barely had time to worry if a brawl was about to break out in the nicest apartment he’d ever seen when the fancy lock buzzed open and three very disgruntled superheroes barged in. Matt was right about Danny’s eye, but the cut looked shallow enough. It wasn’t bleeding at least. Luke’s shirt had ripped at the sleeve and his shoulders were covered in something Foggy’s brain initially identified as dandruff, before recognising it as plaster dust. Which made more sense. Jessica was unscathed but doing an excellent Medusa impression. Foggy was almost scared to make eye contact, she looked so furious.

            “What happened?” Matt asked as soon as they were through the landing.

            Luke started to say something in a pacifying tone but Jessica spoke over him.

            “IGH finally figured out who stole their precious asset and sent goons to my apartment.”

            “What!” Karen and Foggy’s surprise was harmonised and not entirely convincing, judging my Jessica’s questioning scowl.

            “Is everyone okay?” Matt asked quickly. “Your neighbour?”

            “Malcolm’s fine. But my windows are all blown to shit courtesy of Danny’s fisting.”

            “Ew, _Jess!”_ Luke griped over Danny’s evident confusion.

            “But it means we’re running out of time,” Jessica continued, shaking off her jacket and rolling her shoulder. “It won’t take them long to connect me to Trish, if they haven’t already. We need to move.”

            “I told you, we can’t!” Luke snapped, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “Even if we can break through all their security, you saw those videos! Those were military-grade suppression doors, Jessica. Once they closed we’re fish in a barrel.”

            “Can’t you just,” Foggy began, then faltered slightly as all scowls turned to him. Except Matt. “Bust them open?” he finished lamely. “I mean, you guys are kinda strong.”

            “It would take time,” Luke explained. “Time they can use to arm up and send their private _army_ after us! We’d be walking blind, we’ve no blueprints of the place, no schematics –”

            “I know it,” Matt said quietly. All eyes turned to him. Foggy’s stomach dropped about eight stories as he saw the familiar resolve on his friend’s stubborn gaze. Karen’s soft gasp beside him matched the silent cry of his heart.

            Not again.

            “You really think you could go back there?” Danny asked. Not unkindly, just ... honestly.

            “Of course he can,” Jessica snapped, plonking herself down on the couch beside Karen’s abandoned computer.

            “Matt, you can’t,” Karen said quickly, stepping forward and reaching for his hand. “It’s too soon, you’re too hurt, you can’t –”

            “I’m fine.” It wasn’t harsh. Just curt. Firm.

            Luke shook his head, taking a step closer to Matt and smiling in a way he was lucky Matt couldn’t see. “Matt, seriously. You’re not fine. You can’t come with us. You’re not at a hundred per cent yet. You can’t even see.”

            Matt opened his mouth angrily to respond but before he could Jessica barked a laugh and hurled Karen’s computer right at Matt’s head. Foggy, Karen, Luke and Danny all leapt forward, trying to intercept the expensive projectile, but none of them were fast enough.

            But Matt was. He caught it nimbly in one hand two inches from his cheekbone. It shook slightly in his grip as he lowered it.

            “He can see just fine,” Jessica said in a satisfied tone, slouching back into the couch cushions.

            “What the hell, Jones!” Luke groaned. “What if that’d hit him?”

            She just shrugged. “Then he’d bruise. And Rand would’ve bought Page a new laptop.”

            Karen’s indignant splutter resonated on a deep emotional level with Foggy. She took her computer from Matt and held it protectively against her stomach.

            “If you’re going to take down IGH,” Matt said, his voice even, reasonable, persuasive. His lawyer voice. Foggy’s heart dropped down to meet his stomach. “You’re going to need me. I know that place. As well as any blueprint. And I owe it to the others to get them out of there.”

            “Matt –”

            “I’m not sitting this one out. I can do it.”

            The three sighted superheroes exchanged glances; Luke’s disbelieving, Danny’s apprehensive, and Jessica’s bored.

            “Matt,” Foggy almost whispered. “You can’t go back there like this. You said yourself things aren’t back to normal yet.

            “I’ll be fine, Foggy.”

            “No you won’t!” he shot back, his voice far louder than he’d intended but fuck it, he was not about to let his best friend walk into another death trap. “You’re still healing, you idiot! You’re thin and you’re exhausted – how long do you expect to last against a _private army?_ Against more Tasers and cattle prods? Come on, Matt. Be smart.”

            Matt turned to him, his expression set and stubborn.

            “Being smart is making the right decision at the right time. You heard what they said. We need to move. Without me they’ll be blind, they’ll get cornered, and they won’t be able to get the others out. Most of them won’t be able to walk so well and those who can will think it’s another hallucination. They’ll fight. They need me, Foggy. They need me to be their eyes.”

            Jessica snorted. “That was poetic as shit, Murdock.”

            Foggy ignored her. He stared Matt down, hoping he could hear through his heart how furious he was, how ... hurt. They just got him back. Yesterday.

            “Foggy’s right, Matt,” Karen tried softly, reaching out for his shoulder. He didn’t shake her off but his posture was rigidly unwelcoming. “Let them do it, just this once. You can tell them where to go. From here. Help us with the case, just be a lawyer for now. Daredevil needs more time to heal.”

            Matt took a deep breath through his nose and turned to face her and Foggy.

            “I know this is a lot to ask,” he said quietly, sincerity and resolve biting through the words. “But I need to do this. I can’t just tell them where to go. I need to be there. To feel it. The memories aren’t ... I need to be there to know.”

            Foggy curled his hands into shaking fists. His breathing was loud and gusting through his nose as he fought for calm and composure.

            “Matt, please –” Karen began, but Matt cut across her.

            “If you can’t understand why I need to this –  _this,_ of all things – then there’s no point having a deal, Karen. I need to get the others out of there. I need to go.”

            There was a tense silence as Karen turned to implore Foggy for more back up, but his blurred gaze was fixed on Matt. Luke and Danny stood there, just letting this happen. Jessica was rubbing her shoulder absent-mindedly, her gaze averted from the trio who had once happily worked together. They were all going to let this happen. Karen said nothing else, and he could feel her accept it beside him, feel her deflate with disappointment and fear.

            It was going to happen again.

            “You don’t even have your suit,” Foggy growled, each syllable ringing with furious accusation.

            “I’ll be okay, Foggy. I promise.” His reassuring smile was salt in the wound. An insult. A twist of the knife.

            “No,” Foggy said through gritted teeth, his nails biting into his palms. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

            Unable to look at him anymore, Foggy walked away, snatching his blazer from behind Jessica and heading straight for the door, ignoring Karen’s pleading call and Matt’s shouting silence.


	19. Ripples Keep You Safe

            Anger kept him stalking through the city for a full hour. He thought about calling Claire to vent, but what would be the point? She’d probably be on the moron’s side. What an idiot. What was he thinking? Well, Foggy knew. He wasn’t. It was just his stupid hero complex, this desperate need to save people like the arrogant asshole he was. He just wanted the glory. To feel important or something.

            Okay. That wasn’t fair. Foggy knew why he did it. Hell, the guy was blinded as a kid trying to save some old dude. And, pissed off though he was, he couldn’t ignore Matt’s true motivation. Even if he couldn’t truly understand it, he knew what fuelled his stupid best friend’s rage. His drive to help others. The penny had finally dropped about two months after the wake. Matt’s life would have been so different if there had been a Daredevil to save his dad in that dank alley all those years ago.

            And it was kinda hard to stay mad at that.

            Which only made him madder.

            It was like Matt had all the cards. Whatever Foggy was mad about, he could always trump it with some noble, self-sacrificing bullshit. Even when he was dead and Foggy almost blacked out in a blind rage because his stupid coffee maker broke (because grief is so _logical_ ) there was always this infuriating little spark deep in the agony that was his heart that knew he couldn’t be truly angry at the man who had let himself die to save their city. He could even almost understand how the whole Daredevil thing might be, like, therapeutic for Matt ‘cause of the whole blind guy act.

            But all that did not mean he wasn’t a complete fucking _idiot._

            He was seriously just going to waltz into this goddamn army base with nothing but some glorified black PJ’s for protection? Never mind him going back to the scene of his recent _trauma_ – ‘cause _that_ wasn’t going to be a problem _at all_ – but the place was frickin’ manned to the teeth with people who _literally tortured people as their day job._

            And yet _he’s_ the one to get the crazy no-you-didn’t look for suggesting the guy who still couldn’t fully _straighten his back_ should sit out another freaking _war!_

            New York did not have enough streets to walk this shit off.

            He was going to get himself killed. Again. But this time there would be no explosion. There’d be a body. They’d have to dig up that empty coffin and rebury it. Change the date on the headstone. Probably have Father Lantom do another ceremony.

            Foggy’s shoes scuffed loudly as he came to a dazed stop. He wouldn’t survive that. He couldn’t go through this again. Not again. Not two days after his heart was stapled back together. He couldn’t lose Matt again. He only just got his old avocado partner back.

            Matt was going to run off to IGH. There was nothing Foggy could do to stop him. Because the fucker was right. If he didn’t get those other prisoners out of there he’d never forgive himself. And he’d never be able to heal. The others weren’t able to save him last time, they won’t be able to protect him now.

            Matt was going to die.

            And there was nothing Foggy could do about it.

            Again.

            He couldn’t even give him his stupid suit.

            Foggy froze. An old, painful memory was stirring. And with it, an idea.

            Well shit. Now he was too much of a genius to be mad anymore.

 

 

 

            It took him two hours to track down the right shack. The closer he got, the more he wished he’d run home for his baseball bat. This area was dodgy as ... well. It was Hell’s Kitchen. He kept expecting some rent-a-thug with a neck tattoo to jump out and start Tarantino-ing his guts into the gutters. But it turns out determination trumped fear. And it wasn’t as bad as that Dogs of Hell dive. _Shudder._

            Feeling an army of cleat-wearing spiders traipsing up and down his spine, Foggy knocked on the corrugated garage door. The droning hum of a saw whistled to a stop. Veeery reassuring. The silence was nerve-wracking so he knocked again.

            He really wished he’d asked more questions about this guy. Like if he was the shoot first, ask questions later type.

            Oh, this was a very bad idea.

            The door buzzed open, the metallic clanking an explosion into the quiet evening. Foggy leapt back, wishing he had his damn bat.

            Oh, this was a _very_ bad idea. The guy looked like the original rent-a-thug clone. Complete with bald head and haughty glare.

            Oh, boy.

            “Who are you?”

            It took Foggy a moment to find his voice. “Em, Foggy. Nelson.”

            “You’re not supposed to be here.”

            The guy shifted his weight and Foggy noticed the buzz saw in his hand.

            Shit.

            “Eh I’m – I need to talk to you. You’re Melvin Potter, right?”

            Potter blinked in surprise and lowered the saw uncertainly.

            “How – how did you know that?”

            Okay, his tone was far less confrontational now. That was good. A good sign. Okay.

            “We have a mutual friend. Daredevil?”

            Foggy held Potter’s gaze. The hostility drained away as soon as he said the name. To reveal obvious grief.

            “You, uh ... you can come in.”

            He stood to the side and nodded Foggy under the door. He ducked through, feeling his heartrate return to a more human rhythm. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

            The door clattered shut, sealing the two men inside. Potter dropped the saw on one of the many work benches that ringed the ominously underlit chop shop. Which had about eight potential murder weapons on each. Oh, boy.

            “How do you know Mr Daredevil?”

            _Mr_ Daredevil?

            “Um, well I know his, uh, other self better. He’s my best friend.”

            Melvin Potter’s shoulders slumped, his abruptly miserable gaze falling to the floor, and his fingers started fidgeting. Foggy frowned. This was ... unexpected.

            “Are you mad at me too?”

            “What? Mad at you? Why would M– why would Daredevil be mad at you?”

            “’Cause I messed up,” he mumbled, sounding like a little kid. A really sad kid.

            “What do you mean? You didn’t mess up.”

            He shook his head fiercely, throwing his hands up as he barged past Foggy to the far end of the room, slapping his shiny head repeatedly. “I did mess up, _I did mess up!”_

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr Potter, stop! Hey, just, just tell me what happened, yeah? I know Daredevil. He’s not mad at you.”

            Potter sniffed and turned his suddenly huge, tearful eyes on Foggy. “You can call me Melvin if you want. ‘Mr Potter’ reminds me of my dad.” He sniffed again. “I don’t like my dad.”

            “Okay,” Foggy said quickly, stepping forward and smiling encouragingly. “Melvin. Why do you think Daredevil’s angry with you?”

            Melvin gestured to the wall. “’Cause I messed up. I got his friend killed. And he really liked her, I could tell.”

            Foggy followed his gaze to a suit hung on the wall and he understood. Unable to look away he stepped over to it, one hand reaching for the very visible rip in the abdomen.

            This was what Elektra wore. That night on the roof. This little hole is how she died.

            _Oh. Oh god._

            “I thought it was strong enough,” Melvin babbled miserably. “I made it black, see? Black’s stronger ‘cause it gets longer in the heat chamber and six extra coats of polyethylene and – and I made it for Betsy but it was-wasn’t good enough and the girl died and – and – and Daredevil stopped going out and it’s all my f-f-fault!”

            Every spec of residual fear evaporated as Melvin Potter began to cry, replaced with an irresistible urge to hug. Foggy laid a hand on his shoulder, somewhat cautiously, and wished he had a tissue or something for the poor guy.

            “Melvin,” he said quietly, “It wasn’t your fault. It really, really wasn’t. The people they were up against? They were always going to get hurt. And it wasn’t the suit’s fault. Ma– Daredevil told me. Elektra took the hit for him. She saved him.”

            “Sh-she did?” How could such an intimidating guy look so fragile?

            “Yeah, she did. And Daredevil didn’t stop fighting. He just took a break for a while ‘cause he was sad. But,” he added, his grin growing. “Do you remember that earthquake a few months back?”

            Melvin nodded, his attention rapt.

            “That was actually caused by some really shitty people trying to hurt the people of the city, and Ma– and Daredevil and his friends were able to stop them. But he got hurt, pretty bad, in the process. And do you know what I think saved him?”

            Melvin sniffed. “What?”

            “The suit you made him. I think that’s the only reason he’s alive. Because of you. Trust me, Melvin, Daredevil is not mad at you. He’s really grateful. He’s proud of you, buddy.”

            “Y-you really think so?”

            “I know so.”

            Melvin looked down at his hands, sniffing again and clearly thinking it through.

            “Is that why he hasn’t been out keeping people safe?” he asked after a moment. “’Cause he got hurt bad?”

            “Yeah. And his suit got wrecked.” Best not to go into detail, Foggy thought. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could make something for him, because he’s going to go fight some more bad people and he doesn’t have anything to protect him – to keep him safe.”

            Melvin’s face lit up as though someone had turned the happy dial to full in his brain. “I don’t need to make him something. Look!”

            He got to his feet and almost ran to the workbench against the back wall. Ducking under it he grunted as he heaved a heavy chest out from its shadowy depths.

            “I made this,” he said, straining with the weight as he carried if over to the biggest table with two low-hanging lights beaming down on its cluttered surface. The chest _thumped_ down, sending a clamp and a platoon of needles scurrying to the edge in a half-hearted bid for freedom. “After he brought back Betsy’s suit, I figured he’d need an upgrade. I was gonna give it to him next time he visited me but I haven’t seen him in so long.” He unclamped the locks and pulled the lid back for Foggy to see. “I found a new way to work the fabric – and I even figured out how to increase the textile strength, see, ‘cause if you add a thin layer of carbon fibre it’s much stronger but you can’t move so good so I experimented with mixing carbon fibre with my own stuff and I came up with this!”

            Foggy had stopped listening. He was transfixed by the suit folded neatly in the chest. It was a deep, inky black, but the light gave it a subtle glow of deep greens and blues, almost like magpie feathers in sunlight. Or like subtle, multi-coloured stars caught in a blurry night sky. Foggy leaned in closer and saw its texture, which had looked flat from afar, was comprised of thousands of tiny bulging hexagons all locked in together. Deep red ran like rivers between the panelling, the material sleeker, the colour identical to the old suit. The helmet sat on top, its elegant horns seeming to suck in the light, its grooves and panels almost hidden by the deep black. The eye guards were a deep, ruby red, glazed and gleaming in the harsh light, looking almost alive.

            This was a good idea. This was a very good idea.

            “Melvin,” Foggy whispered, entirely awed. He reached out to touch the cool fabric. It was even smoother than he’d expected, and even just running his fingertips over it it felt strong. “It’s ... beautiful.”

            “You really think so?”

            He looked up to the cautiously eager face.

            “It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, Melvin.”

            This man should model for toothpaste. No one would be able to resist that smile.

            “And it’s about six times stronger than the old one,” he said excitedly, snatching up a sleeve and tracing a finger along the deep red seam. “The only weak spots are the red bits, the seams and the joiners, but I made sure they were as tough as I could get them without sacrificing movement, ‘cause I seen how Daredevil fights and I don’t wanna slow him down. And here, this little glow it does? That’s ‘cause I coated it in a resin that makes it flame retardant and basically seals the whole thing in so if, say, Daredevil fell in the Hudson or something? He wouldn’t get so cold ‘cause the suit locks in all this heat and keeps the outside out. But then that made it really sweaty so I coated the inside with –”

            Foggy couldn’t keep up with words with that many syllables. He just marvelled at this guy, this weird, _genius_ guy who would spend so much time and effort on keeping Matt safe. God. What was it about that blind idiot that made people so eager to keep him alive?

            When he’d finished outlining all the (very) technical aspects (some of which he actually understood), Foggy clapped a hand on Melvin’s shoulder.

            “Melvin? You are amazing. Daredevil is going to love this. So much.”

            “You really think so?”

            “Oh yeah,” he laughed. “And hey – _thank you._ I really mean that, Melvin. I’m –” He cleared his throat and glanced back to the masterpiece inside the chest. “I think maybe ... I won’t have to worry so much if he’s out there in this.” He looked back to Melvin. “I think you’re gonna keep him safe for me. And I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

            Melvin beamed at him, squeezing his shoulder. There was no mistaking the understanding in his gaze.

            “Hey, you want some chocolate milk Foggy?”


	20. Calm Before the Storm

            Matt cocked his head to the side, listening. Mapping. His senses didn’t reach half as far as he was used to, but he could push his hearing out further if he concentrated. His radar faded into blindness just a few hundred yards from the truck, not far enough to properly see the IGH compound two miles down the road. But he could hear the rhythmic, plodding footsteps of the guards patrolling its perimeter, the sharp clash of keys jangling with every second step. Their heartbeats were too soft to tune into from this distance, but he could still count each one of them. The high whine of electricity buzzing through the fence and cameras was harder to pin down, creating an indistinct thrum that shivered through the air at the end of the road, the faintest trace of zinc and copper barely reaching him.

            “Well?” Luke whispered below him.

            Matt gave his head a little shake, the new mask concealing his frown. He shifted his weight and the rubber sole of his new boots squeaked against the truck’s metal roof, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

            “Jess was right, they’ve added a lot more men. But the service entrance isn’t too heavily guarded. We should be good.”

            “Then let’s roll.”

            Matt nodded, grabbed the edge of the corrugated metal and swung himself over, gritting his teeth as his shoulder and ribs zinged with pain as his weight shifted. He let go, landing with only a slight stagger in the crapped, horribly echoing freighter. Luke swung the creaking doors shut and locked them inside. His steady footsteps crunched through the loose gravel on the side of the road as he returned to the cab.

            “I can’t see a thing,” Jessica complained.

            “Oh no, what a nightmare,” Matt deadpanned, stepping carefully around the single pile of empty plastic boxes that he was told bore the IGH symbol.

            “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

            Matt wondered if she could see his grin. He thought he heard her pull her phone from her pocket, but it wasn’t worth checking. The engine had just rumbled into deafening life. Gritting his teeth, Matt slid down beside Jess, grabbing hold of one of the many looped straps Luke had nailed into the freighter’s floor. Her arm pressed against his as the truck lurched into gear and, not really believing she’d lost her balance, he leaned into the contact. If he was honest with himself, he needed the comfort.

            Danny and Colleen were whispering to each other further into the rattling space, but Matt tuned them out. He was trying to tune everything out. They’d be at the gate in minutes.

            He concentrated on his breathing, flexing his trembling hands in the new gloves. The suit was heavier than he was used to, but not by much. The material was still far too stiff, he hadn’t had a chance to wear it in properly as the others made their final preparations – like finding a rentable cargo truck and outfitting a small hospital inside. Claire was in the cab with Luke and Misty, where she would stay until they got the prisoners out.

            A pothole sent the entire thing lurching to the side and Matt bit down on his lip, wishing it were as easy to keep his nerves in check. It was going to work. There were only seventeen prisoners left, provided none had died since Jessica was last here. They wouldn’t need more than an hour to get everyone out, and lift the files they needed.

            At least, that was the plan.

            The reality was Matt was remembering. Several of the guards patrolling the barbed-wire fences were the same men who had beaten him into a coma. He recognised their footsteps. Learning their gait had helped give him an extra few seconds to prepare for what they heralded.

            He clenched his fists tightly, noting dimly the superior padding and reinforcements Melvin had included which keept his wrists naturally straight. He doubted he really needed the boxer’s tape wrapped around his knuckles with the detailed moulding Melvin had achieved.

            This time he wasn’t going to be chained down or collared or caged. This time, he could win. He could hurt them.

            Matt was no idiot. He knew he was in bad shape. Quite apart from his badly healed ribs and shoulder, he could still feel the last foggy tendrils of the drugs. Claire had bullied him into another three IV infusions, but the itch was still there. The distraction. The nausea, the shakes. Meditating wasn’t as effective on withdrawal symptoms as he had hoped. Focus would have to make up the difference. Hopefully his still-healing senses would be able to keep up with the chaos of battle. The last thing he needed was to be a dead weight to the others. Whatever might happen tonight, they had to free the prisoners. Whatever the cost.

            No. Not whatever the cost. He had a promise to keep.

            “You ready for this, Murdock?” Jessica asked quietly as the floor tilted, meaning they were on the final descent to the gates.

            He nodded, ignoring his galloping heart. “Are you?”

            She snorted, her arm nudging his. “I can’t wait to see their faces when they see your new getup. They’re gonna shit themselves.”

            That made him smile. “So it’s better than the scarf?”

            “Pft. You still look like an asshole. Just a more demonic asshole.”

            “Fits my aesthetic.” He had spent a full ten minutes running his fingers over every inch of the suit Foggy had returned with at two in the morning. Melvin truly had outdone himself this time. Not that he could visually verify, but it was a work of art. Slightly heavier and with a stiffness Foggy assured him would ease with use, it fit Matt perfectly. Despite its many subtle differences to his old suit, as soon as he had pulled the mask on over his face it had felt familiar. Right. He could feel its strength press against him from all sides and, despite the slightly restricted movement, he had breathed more easily than he had since waking up surrounded by his friends’ scents. For the first time, he felt strong again. Even if it was a shadow of the power he had known before Midland Circle.

            Matt had not been able to find the words for the gratitude he felt towards Foggy. And Melvin. He was far past touched. Or humbled. He could not understand what made them go to such lengths to protect him, but for once he didn’t fight it. He embraced it. When they had left Trish’s apartment – leaving it empty this time; the others would wait in Matt’s loft in case anyone slipped past them and had linked Trish to Jessica – Foggy had taken Matt’s armoured arm and pulled him aside.

            “I know you need to do this,” he had said, his voice lower and more serious than Matt had ever heard it. “But just ... be careful, buddy. And promise me you’ll come back?”

            The quiet stumble in Foggy’s heartbeat had been an icy spear through Matt’s very soul. He hadn’t even tried to hide the fear in his voice, or the plea. Matt knew he was putting him and Karen through a hell of their own and he marvelled at the strength and trust he heard in their expressive heartbeats. They were far stronger than he was. And yet they called him the hero.

            Matt had pulled Foggy’s forehead against that of his sleek mask and held him there a moment before wrapping him in a tight hug, hoping the contact would convey what his words could not.

            “I promise, buddy,” he had whispered back before releasing him. “I’ll see you tonight. Wait up.”

            Then he had followed the others out into the streets and breathed deep the thick air of Hell’s Kitchen, feeling, for the first time, that he was home.

            “Still think the ears are a bit much,” Jessica said, wrenching him back to the present. The truck was rattling over the six-foot-long grill that protected an array of subterranean cameras from the immense weight as they scanned the underside of every incoming vehicle for anything unusual.

            Forgetting she couldn’t see him, Matt turned to glare at her, suppressing a smile. “They’re _horns,_ Jones. Horns.”

            “Yeah, sure,” she whispered back, her sneer twisting the words.

            Danny and Colleen fell silent as the truck slowed to a shuddering stop. Matt turned his head to the cab, heat shaking off it in rumbling waves and giving him a good impression of what was going on.

            “Whatcha hear, boy?” Jess breathed beside him, somehow managing to maintain key sarcasm saturation in the near-silent question.

            “They’re checking the IDs,” he almost mouthed back. “Not suspicious. Heartrates steady.” He waited, listening intently. There – the nasal buzz of the barrier lifting. “We’re in.”

            The truck groaned and trundled into the cavernous delivery hanger underground. Matt swallowed hard as the heavy metal gates rattled shut behind them.

            No turning back now.

            Matt rose to his feet and stood facing the doors. His fingers flexed into tight fists as the footsteps came nearer. He felt Jessica take her place by his side, Danny and Colleen crouching to either side behind them, ready to spring. The faint spice of steel slid into the air as Colleen thumbed her katana an inch from its scabbard in anticipation.

            The doors were yanked open.

            It was time to bring Daredevil back from the dead.


	21. Devil's Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, was a bit under the weather and this chapter gave me some trouble. On the bright side the action sequence is longer than I initially thought (shocker) so there are a few extra chapters to come! Thanks again to all you lovely readers and especially the commenters – I love hearing your thoughts :)

            Before the man could register anything amiss Matt had launched himself through the open doors, his heel colliding solidly with the worker’s chest, winding him and knocking him to the floor while the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen landed nimbly and carried his momentum through a fierce punch to the cheek of a second man holding a clipboard. The clatter of the clipboard rattling to the ground sent sharp, metallic echoes through the cavernous space of the loading bay, each distinct wave ricocheting off the bare walls and low ceiling, the sound rippling into a concise image of what lay around him.

            Luke and Misty were already out of the cab, quickly dispatching the three men on the raised loading platform, the almost silent whine of Misty’s prosthetic arm like a continuous flare by her side, keeping her every move starkly silhouetted in Matt’s mind. Jessica was moments behind him, the air whistling through her hair and the open zipper of her jacket as she powered forward, barely a step behind him as they ran for the five unfortunate employees between them and the access hall. Danny and Colleen sped in sprinting arcs, flanking them and rendering any opposition pointless, Colleen racing forward with her katana unsheathed, slicing through the security cameras with clean precision. The heavy plastic thudded to the ground with irreparable finality, the lenses splitting free of their housing and skittering along the concrete floor as though fleeing the sudden violence. Within three minutes, the bay was theirs, and Matt’s armoured knuckles were spiced with fresh blood.

            Misty dug the earpieces from her pockets and threw them to each member of the team, the scream of plastic through the air almost too low for Matt to see. He caught it easily, a flicker of annoyance flaring inside him. He shouldn’t have to rely on just hearing everything. His damn radar should tell him where things were, and especially when they moved. Whatever they had done to dull that ineffable sense was slower to wear off: he could barely feel the eight-wheeled truck not ten feet from him. Only the residual heat from the drive oriented him in the wide, cold space.

            This would be an interesting hour.

            “Once we’re through to the third floor,” Misty was recapping quickly, “we’ll get everyone out and meet back here. Make sure you’re ready,” she added in Claire’s direction. “They’re not gonna be cooporative. You’ve got the sedatives?”

            Claire nodded, her teeth grinding together with the same rage and fear that shook through her blood, but her heart beat as steadily as ever.

            “Then you two,” Misty continued, probably looking at Luke and Jessica, “get to the servers on the top floor, get the files and haul ass back here. Whether you’re there or not, we’re leaving in one hour.”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jessica drawled. “In which case I princess-carry Luke out the window and fly off into the sunset. Or dawn,” she added, unsure.

            “Can you just do that anyway?” Danny asked, an obvious grin colouring the words. “I really want a photo of that.”

            “Can we _focus?_ ” Luke said with irritated astonishment. “We gotta go!”

            The keen slide of the katana returning to its sheath almost drowned out the kiss Luke pressed into Claire’s forehead as he passed. Matt listened for Jessica’s plodding step and followed, pushing his senses further down the hall through which Misty’s boots were clicking, concentrating on what lay ahead and not bothering to mind his step.

            A sudden grip on his elbow startled him and he stopped, turning his head towards Claire.

            “Be careful up there,” she whispered, her tone rife with concern – and of course, the shadow of a threat. “I’m really getting sick of stitches and IVs.”

            He smiled at her, squeezed her arm gently, and left without making any promises. Pretended not to hear her heart quiver as he joined the others in the wide supply corridor leading to the faint screams he was glad the others couldn’t make out.

            Yet.

            The corridor led to a service elevator that rose _infuriatingly_ slowly. It was old and poorly maintained, a thousand mildly rusting parts screaming against each other as the parched mechanism inched higher, the shrill shrieking too faint for the others to hear, harmonising with the burgeoning screams echoing from above. It shivered through the air like a struck spring, biting into Matt’s already aching head with hundreds of tiny fangs. The impressions shook violently around him, momentarily suggesting that Colleen and Misty had somehow melded into one many-limbed creature. Matt gave his head a tight shake and tried to narrow his focus, breathing his mind into stillness. He could feel the others watching him and stood up straighter, their silent doubts emboldening his resolve.

            The doors rattled open and Matt led them along the corridor while Luke and Danny brought up the rear, quickly turning the many cameras to face the walls or ceiling as they went, marking their exit route. Matt had never been on this floor before, but the layout was almost identical to the upper levels. The staircase he had failed to reach during his many futile escape attempts was at the opposite end of the building, through a labyrinth of corridors he assumed from Jessica’s irritable huffing were frustratingly identical. He could feel the weak pulses of heat and indistinct mumble of conversations behind every locked door they passed, but none of the heartbeats he scanned were elevated. So far, so good.

            They had no key card to enter the staircase. Luke or Jessica could easily have wrenched it open but they hesitated. Forcing the lock would trigger the alarm and the countdown would start in earnest. But there was nothing for it. Matt took a fortifying breath as Luke reached for the thrum of electricity buzzing below the metal of the handle. He could feel a stormcloud of memory waiting for him just a few floors up. There would be no ignoring the stench of sterility and blood once they got to the cages.

            The lock screeched as Luke ripped it free, and a heartbeat later, a piercing wail rent the air apart. It was a rusty saw through Matt’s mind, icy teeth biting with unwearied rhythm and monotonous precision. He couldn’t stop himself wincing, his hands half-raising to cover his ears before he remembered the others could see him. He could barely hear his own gasp of pain.

            “Let’s go! Third floor!” Luke shouted over the incessant wail and the shadow of his heat moved through the open door, closely followed by three other flitting phantoms.

            Matt shook his head, trying to see past the siren. The relentless razors of sound should be providing him with a clear, if painful, view of the entire complex, the sharp waves bouncing from wall to wall, rippling around every person, every object in their path. The clarity of the impressions should distil from the wavering mess of confusing ricochets into a clear, pulsing image. It should. Instead he could not surmount the tsunami of crashing noise. It lanced through his mind with scalding distraction, drowning out his subtler senses and overwhelming his still-healing ears. His breath was knocked free of his lungs as he stood there, paralysed, willing his mind to adapt, knowing the others were on the move, not knowing how to follow them.

            “Move it or lose it, Devil Boy.” Jessica’s shout was round and close and he latched onto it. It shimmered through the air, bombarded by the siren, but he could hear it. She took his half-raised hand and pulled him forward, her grip strong and sure. He felt the closeness of the doorframe wink past him, then Jessica was on the steps, moving fast, releasing his hand which he quickly wrapped around her elbow. The staircase was too tight a space for him to see anything past the shocking waves of screeching sound, but Jessica’s body he could track. Tightening his grip in determination he matched his gait to hers and followed her rhythm as she led him up the stairs.

            He focused his senses entirely on her, drawing her sprinting heartbeat to the fore of his mind and letting it swell and roar above the siren. He breathed with her, the short, sharp gasps centring his mind and honing his concentration, the echo of her thick-soled boots slowly registering under the scream of the alarm. They caught up with the others after the first floor but Matt kept his fingers curled around Jessica’s upper arm, needing the anchor until the world stopped shaking around him.

            By the time they reached the third floor, he was ready. Jessica kicked the door open, sending it hurtling into the opposite wall with a metallic crash. Matt released his grip and shouted to the others, turning to face their unsteady silhouettes.

            “We need to split up! Third door on the right, second on the left after the corner, the hall of cages back –”

            The thunder of heavy-booted feet cut him off. A wave of running heat spiced with adrenaline was converging on them from both sides. Matt couldn’t hear the whistle of the batons or the waiting whine of cattle prods but he knew they must be there. He turned to face the wave of attackers, rolling his shoulders and trying to ignore the thick scent of drugs making his skin crawl.

            “Incoming! Both ends!”

            “How many?” Colleen yelled back.

            “At least ten,” Matt guessed, not at all sure in the mess of tumbling sound.

            The others moved into position behind him, forming a loose circle with their backs to each other. Seconds later, the newcomers arrived, breathing heavily and stinking of sweat. Matt caught the faintest hint of plastic and metal but hand no time to wonder which weapons they had armed themselves with today. He’d just have to be too fast for them to use them.

            He smiled. It was payback time.

            He met the first guard with a sharp jab to the gut and an arcing punch to his temple. The others washed by like a wave around a rock and the stillness of anticipation exploded into the chaos of battle. The siren still wailed, stealing detail from Matt’s senses, tricking him into missing several hits he never would have fumbled before but he spared no time on disappointment. Listen and react. Make every hit count. Ignore the pain.

            The mess of bodies was so confusing he wasn’t sure who he was fighting. The distinct scents of his friends were mired in the semi-familiar stench of the IGH guards, the _thwack_ of knuckles on flesh and the grunts of the winded bombarding him from all sides, slowing him down as he struggled to keep up. Just as his first opponent went down two more converged on him and he grit his teeth as he tried to track their movements. The corridor was too close, the siren too loud, the men too quiet. He struck with all the power he could muster, following each ineffective hit with another, hoping to overwhelm with sheer ferocity and volume of blows. He made solid contact three times out of five but one mistake was all it took, and Matt misjudged a right hook that sent his fist flying harmlessly past the man’s head, exposing Matt’s back. The other guard landed a hard blow to the small of Matt’s back a split-second before the first punched upwards into Matt’s jaw. His head snapped back, his knees momentarily buckling, but his painful gasp was lost as the first man’s arm hooked over Matt’s exposed shoulder. A hand clawed at his unprotected throat, choking the thimbleful of air he’d managed to inhale as a knee drove into his back and the man yanked with all his strength. Matt’s already weakened shoulder popped out of its socket with an explosion of stinging barbs and he grunted in pain, his lungs unable to fuel anything more. He had lost track of the second guard and kicked wildly into the space in front of him, hoping to make contact, or find something to push off against but meeting only empty air. He wrenched his free elbow back with all his might into the first guard’s side and that was his second, worse mistake.

            The other guard rematerialized in the form of a cattle prod to Matt’s gut. He tried to double over but was held stretched and screaming in the headlock, his shoulder on fire, his gut alight with blistering pain and why wasn’t the suit protecting him and he wasn’t wearing a suit, he was almost naked, held down and punished for trying to fight back and the pain was unbearable and his nostrils were abrading with the fumes of drugs that stole his senses and his mind was numb with a razor’s shriek that refused to end and he couldn’t breathe and he was trapped and blind and helpless and –

            He slammed into the floor, something solid around his head taking the worst of the impact. Someone kicked him hard in the gut and what little air he had clung to abandoned him as his back hit the wall. He drew his arms up to protect his head and curled into a ball and waited for the attack to start in earnest. Everything around him was a chaos of indistinct impressions, incomprehensible crashes and thuds and tremors and none of it made any sense. Tinny voices chattered in his ear but the words made no sense, the vibrations unendurable. He tore at his ears and something fell free of his fist, silencing the ghosts. The blows he was waiting for weren’t coming and he struggled for breath, knowing whatever distracted them wouldn’t last much longer. He needed to get up, to fight – but no, he needed to stay down, just this once and take it – didn’t he? No, no, get up, Murdocks always get back up – but he couldn’t. His lungs were empty, his gut and chest were burning and his shoulder was weak and held fast in gnawing fangs that were taking their sweet time chewing his arm off.

            Hands pulled at him and he flinched away – but there was nowhere to go. He curled his fingers into fists, not understanding why they’d given him gloves. The hands set his back against the wall, one of them resting on his cheek in a disconcertingly unpainful way, halting his hesitant defence. It was almost ... soothing. Which meant it was a trap.

            “Breathe, Matt. C’mon!”

            He knew that voice. It wasn’t one of them. At least, he didn’t think it was. It knew his name.

            “Breathe you asshole, _breathe!”_

            He tried to do as the woman said, not sure why her anger soothed him, but he couldn’t remember where his lungs were. Everything was lost to the chaos around him. She took his hand and set it against her chest and suddenly there was a heartbeat beating into his palm and he swore he knew that rhythm, fast and frightened though it was. He felt the swell of her lungs as she inhaled deeply and he tried to copy her, mimicking the exaggerated breath.

            Slowly, achingly, his lungs regained their rhythm. Air heaved through them, intensifying the infernos that were his side and shoulder. Something heavy plodded nearby and he flinched – but not quickly enough. The woman jerked backwards, breaking their steadying contact and Matt could _feel_ the electricity stabbing into her lower back, could smell the burning leather of her jacket, could hear her grunt of pain as she twisted away and – that was Jessica Jones. Jessica was here.

            Jessica was hurt.

            Matt tried to push off from the wall but his arm gave out underneath him, his legs refusing to move. Only then did he realise how violently he was shaking.

            A heavy thud and a strangled cry that faded quickly into the distance startled him and suddenly Jessica was back, her hand clenched tight around his uninjured shoulder.

            “Matt? Matt can you hear me?”

            He nodded, though the words were oddly distorted by the shrieking. The alarm. He must have set it off again. He hoped it had been him. He didn’t think he could bear to listen to another punishment. It was better to face it himself. Then he wouldn’t be able to hear anything past his own screams.

            “Matt!” A sharp slap across his cheek and he started. “What street did you grow up on? Tell me!”

            Jessica. Angry Jessica. She sounded urgent. What had she asked? Where had he grown up? Hell’s Kitchen, but she knew that, didn’t she? She had looked into his past.

            “The street, Matt! What street did you grow up on?”

            Oh. Panting heavily, Matt bullied his mind into answering. He didn’t understand why this mattered – or how Jessica had gotten here – but it seemed important. Did she mean the orphanage? Or the apartment he had shared with his dad?

            “T-tenth and fo-forty-first,” he stammered, hoping that was right.

            “And the next block over?” She didn’t sound as angry now. Her words were far clearer, too.

            “Um, D-Dyer Av-venue.” He remembered how the Incident had pulverised the roads there. An entire block of flats had caved in. Far more screaming that when Midland Circle had fallen.

            “And the next intersection?”

            Midland Circle. Elektra. IGH.

            This wasn’t Jessica’s first time here.

            “Fortieth and n-ninth.” He nodded, fumbling for her shoulder and squeezing it in gratitude. “I’m okay, Jess. I’m good.” It would sound more convincing if his voice weren’t shaking so much, but she seemed to buy it.

            “Then we gotta move, Rocky. C’mon. The others are already rounding up patients.”

            “Wait.” He used his good arm to pull the other into place, resting his forearm – which was definitely bleeding under the suit and bandages – against his chest. Taking firm hold of his elbow he took a quick breath and _shoved_ , drowning out Jessica’s half-formed interjection with a snarling grunt of pain. The joint slid painfully back into its socket and the inferno instantly cooled. Sighing with relief Matt got up, accepting Jessica’s outstretched hand only after she snapped her fingers impatiently. He hadn’t noticed it was there.

            “Did you seriously just relocate your own shoulder?”

            “Reset,” he corrected, making the rookie mistake of shrugging. He grimaced. “Done it before.”

            Her silence was one he associated with some form of glare. Maybe even an eye roll.

            “Your life is seriously fucked up.”

            He grinned at that as though it were a compliment. The sudden whistle of steel grabbed his attention and he cocked his head, listening intently past the dizzying wail of the siren. Something electronic was sliced cleanly in two – by Colleen, he recognised her breath – one floor up. The siren was cut short mid-wail, leaving a sudden, blessed, ringing silence in its wake. Matt felt a heavy weight leave him and his lungs expanded with welcome ease – and he winced as several broken ribs made themselves known.

            The final tremors of the alarm wavered into stillness and he could finally see again. The corridor was empty save several heaps of unconscious guards, many of whom were dusted with a thick layer of drywall. He turned his attention to Jessica. A small cut on her cheekbone was bleeding and her breath carried the hitch of a pain he hoped wasn’t serious. He let his senses rove quickly over her and found no serious injury, but the singed flesh in her lower back was still hot and raw. He reached out for her elbow and held it gently for a moment.

            “Thank you, Jess.”

            She turned away, heading back down the hallway. “We’re on the clock, Beelzebub. C’mon.”

            He grinned and followed after her, shaking the memories from his mind and grounding himself in her steady heartbeat. Pushing his weary senses outwards, he heard a chorus of sluggish pulses and shallow panting whistling past the thick bars of metal cages. All humour drained from his face. Jessica was right. They were running out of time.


	22. Hell is What the Devil Brings

            He led Jessica to the hall. Took a moment to map the interior. Seven people in there. As he listened one of the prisoners was electrocuted, the current scorching through the bars of the cage. Matt clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hear their pathetic whimper and not lose himself to memory again. He needed to focus.

            He nodded at Jessica and she kicked the door in with a metallic screech. Matt was over the threshold a split second after the hinges shattered, whipping the clubs from his thigh holster and letting out a great bellowing roar as he powered into the first of his targets. It was one of the scientists and he recognised his scent. He had always enjoyed testing new drugs on his captives. Matt remembered how he’d tapped notes into his tablet with such enthusiasm, how his adrenaline had saturated the air as Matt lay paralysed but fully conscious on a cold metal table, unbound but powerless to move as a flurry of latex gloves had probed and cut and shocked over his flesh. He remembered this man complaining about a bad date while he tested how long Matt could stay conscious without air, remembered him gloating over his extravagant lunch as Matt starved under his scalpel.

            It took him only one hit to leave the man in a bloody, unconscious heap on the sterile floor. And a fierce effort of will to leave him there.

            Matt tore through the hall with a strength and surety he had almost forgotten he possessed. His mind was safe behind an iron wall of dogged determination, his focus rapt and his heart methodically ignored as those in the cages who were lucid enough to understand the violence they witnessed cowered and screamed in their glorified dog crates. He flew from target to target with the efficiency and brutality that had earned him his name back in Hell’s Kitchen. He fought with the power his father had given him, with the skill and precision Stick had beaten into his every muscle. These guards were equipped with dart guns, the fortified syringes filled with a sedative Matt knew from experience sucked the strength from your limbs in seconds.

            They never even got to draw them. They went down hard and heavy – bruised, bleeding, and with the satisfying, squelching _crack_ of broken bones. Trolleys and tables clattered to the floor in a chorus of metallic shouts as more bodies fell to the devil’s wrath, their low grunts and gasps of pain a harmony to the melody of violence.

            It was over far too quickly. Matt stood still a moment, his body coiled and tensed, waiting for the next strike to reveal itself. He let out a sharp growl of unsated fury and relaxed his stance, shaking the excess energy from his limbs. Jessica stood near the door, facing him.

            “Remind me not to piss you off,” she muttered, turning away from him to the first of the occupied cages. Matt focused on filling his lungs for a moment, feeling his chest expand against the firm shape of his suit and exhaling his still ravenous bloodlust. They weren’t finished yet. He had work to do.

            Jessica wrenched the cages open without apparent effort, the squeal of the breaking bars high and piercing, but blessedly brief. She freed the last prisoner and looked back down the line, clearly wondering why none of the six had moved.

            “Uh, people?” Matt felt her shoo her arms toward the doorless exit. “Let’s move?”

            “They don’t understand,” Matt said quietly, crouching down by the first cowering figure. He remembered her. Subject Eighteen, they called her. She was tough. It had taken a lot to make her scream. She shifted further into the bars as he approached so he kept his distance, leaving enough room for her to push past him if need be.

            “Hey,” he whispered, hoping the blood he could taste wasn’t coating his teeth as he smiled at her. “What’s your name?”

            Her heartbeat was light and fast, a frantic beat he had tried and failed not to become attuned to. The day she was brought in was one of the last he had given to fighting. He could identify any of these poor souls by their breath alone. She swallowed, the whispering rasp of her parched throat twisting something in Matt’s gut.

            “Max,” she whispered, her voice far steadier than his had been at first.

            “We’re going to get you out of here, Max,” he said quietly. “We have friends downstairs and a truck to get you away from here. Will you come with me?”

            He just caught the whisper of her long, greasy hair as she shook her head.

            “Trick,” she breathed.

            “No trick,” he promised, feeling the dull burn of many eyes on him. “Do you see her?” He pointed to Jessica, still standing awkwardly near the last cage, whose occupant was inching toward the gaping hole in the bars with all the haste of a glacier. “Her name is Jessica. Last week, she got me out of here. And now we’ve come back for all of you.”

            The heartbeat spiked, the rhythm skipping as Max absorbed this. The others’ unsteady pulses mimicked hers a half-second later, like a sonic domino falling from one terrified, nervous soul to the next.

            “They punished us,” Max said, her voice rising above a whisper with a clear note of accusation. “Because of you.”

            Matt bowed his head and ignored Jessica’s indignant retort as she came nearer. He wasn’t surprised. He had hoped no one else would suffer for his escape but, such a hope was futile in a place like this. Holding a hand out to quiet Jessica – whose anger was sending the already sprinting heartrates galloping ever faster – he pulled of his helmet and trained his eyes a few inches above the soft whistle of Max’s breath, hoping he was in the ballpark of her eyes.

            “I am so sorry, Max,” he whispered fervently. He turned to look along the cages at the others. “I’m sorry for all of you. I didn’t –”

            “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jessica drawled. “He wasn’t even conscious you assholes and it was my decision. You wanna be mad, be mad at me – but be mad _while walking._ Our ride leaves in –” a brief pause and the dull _click_ of a smartphone button – “thirty-two minutes, and if you’re not on it you’re screwed.” Matt turned to glare at her but she just clapped her hands – making everyone jump – and barked, “C’mon! Move it!”

            “Jessica, they’re scared!” he snapped, throwing her a scowl.

            “They can be scared and walk! It’s called multitasking, Murd – Devil Boy.”

            Shaking his head, Matt turned back to Max and held out one armoured hand. “I promise we’ll keep you safe,” he whispered, injecting all the sincerity of his heart into the words. Max considered him for a long moment, her heartrate gradually calming, if only a little.

            “You were the blind one. You fought back.”

            “Yes.”

            Her trembling, skeletal fingers curled around his. Beaming at her bravery, he pulled her free of the cage, supporting her weight as her legs shook violently once she was on her feet. Whether because they believed this miraculous rescue was real, were eager to get the simulation over with, or were simply too numb to care anymore, the others followed Max’s example. Thankfully, Jessica thawed when she saw this, helping those who couldn’t walk alone – which was everyone but a very determined Max and a slight man who refused to speak, who clung to each other with a vicelike grip – and even mumbling reassurances as they shook against her. Matt followed her lead, pushing his helmet back over his face and supporting one near-hyperventilating tank of a man who seemed certain Matt was Satan himself. Matt gritted his teeth against the angry flare in his ribs and shoulder as he pulled the mildly struggling man along. Jessica led the way, one semi-conscious man draped over her shoulders and two more propped up by each side.

            “You’re gonna have to handle any surprises,” she called back to Matt, her voice not even straining. He kept forgetting how strong that woman was.

            They met the others in the stairwell. Since Jessica greeted them with a curse he surmised they were all looking far shabbier than they had earlier. Blood hung like a cloud around them, the scent thick and sticking. The small crowd of heartbeats were almost uniformly elevated, the strongest among them beating a steady metronome which only served to exaggerate the erratic frenzy that pulsed through the prisoners.

            “Did we find everyone?” Matt asked, trying to keep the building pain out of his voice. The memories were snapping at his mind like poisoned shouts, each demanding his attention. It took a lot of concentration and more stubbornness to ignore them and the thick stench of fear and agony that rolled off the newly freed with every shallow breath.

            “Yeah,” Luke panted. If Matt was interpreting things correctly, he was carrying four people. Far too tired to investigate the logistics of that, Matt merely satisfied himself that each of them were breathing. And unconscious.

            “I count thirteen,” Colleen objected. “I thought there were sevente–”

            “There were,” Misty cut across her. “They’re dead. And we need to move.”

            One of the prisoners collapsed against Danny and he stumbled, almost falling down the stairs. As one the group made their way down the suddenly precarious steps, herding the others along. Some of them seemed to be waking up, still uncertain but aware enough to not make a nuisance of themselves. Some of them decided to try walking on their own, or with help from a cagemate. Matt tried very hard not to remember the man whose cage had been alongside his, before the CEO had ordered Matt be kept in isolation. His absence in the stairwell was as acute as a fresh wound.

            When they reached the first landing, Matt froze. A surge of hot, stinging hatred rushed through him, erasing all awareness of pain and fear. He inhaled deeply, needing to be sure. Yes. There was no mistaking that cologne.

            “Stop.”

            The hesitant squeak of rubber soles.

            “Stop? I’m sorry, have you forgotten the hoard of private security that is seconds away from finding us?” Jessica snapped. Matt could almost hear her scowl.

            “He’s here. The CEO. He’s upstairs.”

            “Stryker?” Danny confirmed, surprise pulling at the word. Matt nodded.

            He assumed glances were exchanged in the silence that followed his words. Or, near silence. Several frightened whimpers peppered the air.

            “I’m going after him,” he declared, ducking out from under Subject Fourteen’s arm and guiding him into the shuffling huddle that was Max and the silent man. “I’ll meet you at the truck. If I’m late, go.”

            “My god not again, you _dumbass._ ”

            The argument that followed was brief and quickly settled as several of the prisoners heard the whispered pounding of familiar boots one floor above them and became instantly more capable of hobbling further down the many stairs. Matt silently cursed himself for not hearing the newcomers sooner. He needed to _focus_ , damnit!

            “Misty, Colleen, and Danny,” Luke said, speaking over any lingering objections. “Get everyone to Claire and you get out of here. We’ll deal with this.”

            As one, Luke, Jessica, and Matt raced back up the stairs, ready to buy the others as much time as possible.


	23. Let the Devil Out

            Matt just had time to estimate there were around thirty of them when they collided in the stairwell, two floors above the fleeing prisoners. These were no brute thugs relying on sheer strength and weapons to subdue their prey. These men and women instantly proved themselves to be skilled, fierce fighters, and with only three obstacles between them and their objective, they moved with a confidence that bordered on contempt.

            Until Luke punched one of them through the wall and Jessica kneed one in the groin so hard he hit the ceiling. Adapting quickly, they changed tactics, working together like a deadly efficient machine, unsheathing their Tasers and guns. Which were about as helpful as you’d expect with Luke Cage in the mix.

            The thrill of the battle was intoxicating. Even slow and weak though he felt he was, Matt relished every moment of lost restraint as he ducked and wove and punched his way through the crowd, Luke and Jessica never far from his flanks. They had never fought like this before, during their brief collaboration half a year ago. Something had shifted, something small and crucial. Somehow, they now fought as one, sharing the fight more than overlapping in it. Matt would snap a shinbone and leave Jessica to knock them unconscious, Luke would unbalance another and send them into Matt’s bloody path. Not a single one of them made it past their violent triangle.

            Matt spared a moment to wish he could fully appreciate the bloody beauty that must surround him. The impressions flickering through his mind were vague and oddly disjointed, far from the sinuous flow of information he was used to.

            They pushed them back into an open corridor in what must have been only minutes, though it felt far longer. A trail of moaning and silent bodies tracked their progress. Those who still fought had abandoned all restraint and struck with all the fear and desperation of those who know they will lose, but are determined not to lose alone. Unfortunately for him, they had identified Matt as the weak link.

            Six of them pinned him against the wall, pummelling him with fists and batons in such a frenzy he could barely keep up. He raised his arms to protect his head and waited as the blows rained down. A fist powered into his side and he felt another rib break. A foot lashed out and his knee buckled. Melvin’s skill was all that protected him from sliding into unconsciousness.

            But the attackers made a mistake. Once Matt was on one knee two of them peeled off to help their fellows with Luke, and their absence meant a break in the group’s rhythm.

            Which was all Matt needed.

            With a roar he launched himself forward, tackling the biggest man to the ground and knocking him out with one decisive punch, already swinging around to whip his legs under those of the two nearest him. One fell hard while the other managed to keep her balance, but Matt had already spun to his feet, hissing as his knee shook under his weight, and was on her in seconds, his own body a blur of painful motion and sharp, razor gasps.

            The last one had wisely used his distraction to extricate themselves from the throng of flying fists and feet, but they should have drawn their dart gun more quietly. Just as the woman dropped heavily to the floor Matt heard the series of clicks as the gun cocked. His head whipped in the direction of the sound, his mind already mapping its aim. His stomach plummeted as he realised it wasn’t pointed at him.

            He felt the tension of the trigger. Smelled the loaded dart waiting in the chamber. Heard the man’s finger slip in his own sweat as he adjusted his grip.

            Jessica had her back to the gun, trying to pull the men choking Luke off his neck. One body fell, their momentum twisting Jess around, making her a better target to the unseen sniper. The finger pressed into the trigger with a _squelch_ no one else could hear and Matt flung himself forward, his damn knee giving at exactly the wrong moment and stealing the power from his launch. He tried to compensate as the hammer fell, the clamour of the controlled explosion impossibly loud, and the dart whizzed free of the nozzle. Then another. And another.

            Matt put all his weight on his good leg and hoped he wasn’t too late. He heard Jessica’s heartrate spike and Luke finally gasp a full breath and a _thud_ and the whistle of the synthetic feathers guiding the darts – and then the staccato tinkle of breaking glass as they snapped against his armoured back, the needles clinking to the ground a second before his knee refused to bear his landing and he crashed into the wall and slumped ungracefully onto his ass.

            A muffled scream and garbled grunt suggested Jessica through someone at the man who had fired. Another indistinct _thwump_ and maybe Luke was clear now.

            “Taking a nap?” Jess asked as Matt panted on the floor. Her heart had slowed enough to convince him the fight was over. He shrugged his uninjured shoulder.

            “Well you guys were – taking so long,” he drawled in between gasps.

            She held a hand out to him with a huff he was sure accompanied some form of glare or eye roll and hauled him to his feet. He kept his weight on his good leg, testing the other gingerly.

            “You good?” Luke was panting heavily, his voice far rougher than usual. Matt nodded, forcing himself to straighten.

            “Let’s go.”

 

 

            Matt followed Stryker’s stench to the top floor, the rage building and coiling around inside him with every step, erasing his pain and honing his senses. He could taste Stryker’s sweat and fear from the stairwell, hear his hammering pulse and the frantic tapping of a keyboard. Eight stories below, a miniature sun exploded into being, a high whine shrieking from its intense, pulsing heat.

            “We need to hurry,” Matt told the other two. “Stryker’s erasing files and Danny just turned on his fist thing.”

            “Is the truck full?”

            Matt shook his head. “They’ve got company.” He cocked his head. “And so do we.”

            Stryker had two bodyguards and neither of them were normal. Matt could smell a thick wave of cloying chemicals on their every breath. One of them felt almost feverish but their breathing – and heartrate – were unnervingly steady. He muttered a quick warning to the others as they raced along the smooth, polished surface of the hallway. Luke made short work of the heavily locked door into Stryker’s office and the three of them lunged through.

            Luke and Jessica took a guard each while Matt ran straight for IGH’s CEO. His focus narrowed onto the pathetically terrified man as he heaved him away from the whirring servers and threw him into the wall. He stalked after him, barely noticing Luke keeping one of the guards away from him as he past.

            “Don’t hurt me – no! Don’t hurt me, it’s not my fault, I swear, I didn’t know!”

            Matt heaved him to his feet by a fistful of his silk shirt, his fury a roaring fire in his blood. He shoved him hard against the wall and leaned in close, the horns of his helmet inches from the sweating forehead.

            “You really think you can lie to the devil?” he growled, pressing his forearm into the man’s throat, making him cough and splutter. He tried to say something else but Matt’s patience had run out – along with his restraint. Barely aware of the two intense fights thundering through the wide office behind him, he pulled back his right fist – not even registering the pain in his shoulder – and snapped it forward into Stryker’s face. Blood ripped into the air in a splatter of tangy copper. He punched again and felt his cheekbone fracture. And again. And again. And again.

            And again.

            Matt lost himself to the rage that fuelled his every strike, obliterating his senses because he didn’t need to _see_ what he was doing to this pathetic excuse of a man. He could feel it. Every cracking bone, every ruptured organ. He relished the taste of his blood on his tongue, savoured holding his weight against the wall as he struck again and again in a haze of dizzying bloodlust. With every smacking collision of fist to flesh Matt felt the cattle prods and burning cage bars and the pinch of a thousand needles and his own body weakening, refusing to do as his mind begged. He heard again all those screams, all those strangled sobs and tasted the salt of enough tears to flood his own drowning heart. He smelt again the savage enjoyment of the people who had treated him like an animal, like a _thing_ that existed only for their amusement, their laughter a whip of mocking indifference on his too-sensitive ears. He felt again the aching loneliness that had been the closest thing to a companion he had known, so acute, so rife with burning half-memories and the agony of his existence that the only explanation was God had turned his back on him, had left him to rot in a Hell he couldn’t deny he deserved. He remembered praying. Every time he was left alone and conscious. Rosaries giving shape to the sensory deprivation tank until the sound of his own voice had made his gut twist in disgust. He had begged the emptiness for forgiveness, for a chance to repent. For the Hell to end.

            This man was the reason he had doubted the love of his own God, the one guiding constant in his life. The one being whose judgement kept Matt fighting, kept him trying. The hope of forgiveness and acceptance that had driven him on, made him strive for more, for a better version of himself he wasn’t sure even existed in this life. This man had taken that from him. Had made him doubt the one thing about which he had always been so certain.

            And this man had stolen God only knew how many lost souls and tortured them past the realms of sanity. For money. For profit. For power.

            Prison was far too kind a sentence.

            Matt, panting for breath, his voice a low, guttural grunt with every blow, pulled back his fist again, feeling his strength flow into his arm, along his shoulder, down through his torso to his firmly planted feet, ready to be unleashed to its fullest potential.

            A hand clamped around his forearm, absorbing his punch before it could reach its target. Matt snapped his head around, his teeth bared in fury. The sudden stillness shocked him. A chaos of impressions tumbled through his mind as Luke held him fast.

            Blood. Everywhere. Coating his fists, splattering his chest. Outlining the unconscious man sliding down the wall as Matt’s fingers unclenched. Stryker’s breath was a reedy wheeze, faint and slight and laboured. He could taste raw bone in the air, even a hint of marrow. Feel the flame of swelling tissue. The cracks in the plaster like stale wafer shedding dust into the air.

            He stumbled back, letting Stryker thud to the ground. Luke released him without a word. There was nothing to be said. He clapped a hand on Matt’s shoulder and moved to join Jessica at the computers.

            Gasping, Matt staggered away from the stuttering heartbeat. A table drove into his hip and he grunted in pain. He meant to set himself down gently but his body had more dramatic ideas and he collapsed into the table – which turned out to be a cabinet. He pressed his back against the boards, ignoring the handles digging into his spine, and forced himself to breathe. To calm. To see.

            The pain came first, as it usually did. His left leg was shaking badly, his knee injured far more seriously than he had realised. His shoulder was throbbing with acidic regularity, his ribs screaming with every breath. He coughed, wincing as it made everything worse, and tasted fresh blood, his mouth swimming in hot copper.

            “You alive, Murdock?” Jess called and he croaked an answer.

            “Can you hear the others?” Luke’s voice was oddly loud. Maybe that was just because Matt’s ears were ringing.

            He searched for anything familiar floors below, frowning in concentration. The sun was gone. The truck’s engine was rumbling in idle. There was a semi-regular _whish_ that might have been the katana. There. Misty’s arm. She was fighting something Matt couldn’t see well enough to understand.

            “They’re – still fighting,” he panted. “Engine’s on. Gotta hurry.”

            “Download’s almost done,” Jessica said, a note of pride gracing her words. “We’ll be outta here in two minutes.”

            The commotion downstairs resolved itself into better detail. Claire was fighting too. He shook his head.

            “We don’t have two minutes.” He felt the shock of the truck being wrenched into gear.

            “We don’t need everything,” Luke said anxiously. He was leaning over Jessica’s shoulder, probably reading the computer screen. “Just enough.”

            “We’re at ninety-three per cent, just chill.”

            Matt tuned out their argument. Every breath stoked the bonfire that used to be his ribs. He was trembling all over now. Dizzy, almost. Forcing his heart to slow, he breathed deeply through his nose, hoping to coax the air into his lungs without angering anything on the way.

 

            At first, he thought it was one of the plants in the office. It was so faint, just a hint past the blood that pervaded the atmosphere. Then he wondered if it was one of the unconscious body guards. He sniffed again. And frowned. He knew that scent.

            Pushing himself to his shaking feet, he stumbled forward, ignored by the other two, following his nose. He kept his right arm pressed tightly against his ribs but even so his back refused to straighten. He barely noticed.

            There was a secret passage behind the bookshelf. He could smell stale air curling in a space that should be wall, hear the steady whine of electricity humming around a decorative katana. He knew pulling it would open the hidden door. He knew the scents would be stronger if he did.

            He couldn’t bring himself to do it. His racing mind was too busy trying to understand.

            Yew and jasmine. A hint of ash. Fresh. Barely two hours old. Madam Gao. And she hadn’t been alone.

            The smell of lotus and embers sliced into Matt’s heart like the sai swords she so favoured. It had been the last thing he had smelled in Midland Circle, erasing the damp heat of the cave or the choking dust. He had held her close to him, his arms wrapped around her as though they could protect her from the tons of rock and steel he was trying to ignore creaking and groaning above them. The taste of her, the salt of their tears, the copper of their blood, the urgency and the tenderness of their embrace had filled his mind and numbed it against the overwhelming cacophony of their looming death. The last thing he remembered was her content sigh against his lips, her hands on around his waist, and her heart beating steadily against his own.

            Elektra.

            She was alive. And she had been here, only hours ago.

            “Holy shit. Luke, look!” They were too loud. Too close. His brain couldn’t handle the roar of the tuck’s engine, it was too much, there was _too much._

            “What? Jess, we’ve got to move!”

            “This one! That’s the day – that date, that’s when I got my powers. It’s me.”

            “Are you sure?”

            She must have nodded. Matt couldn’t tell over Colleen’s screaming. Danny was bleeding. He didn’t know if it was serious or not.  


            “Copy it and _let’s go_.”

            Another wave of impossible scents washed over Matt and it took everything he had not to vomit. She had been here. Maybe she still was. Had she come for him? Had she followed Gao to kill her?

            Matt leaned into the bookcase, gasping. Tears mingled with the sweat dribbling down the side of his face. His elbow slipped off the shelf that propped him up and he fell into an aching heap. Something in his knee snapped. Or crunched. Or was that from downstairs? God, it was hot. He thought the office had been bigger, why were the walls suddenly so close? What were the others saying?

            Someone pulled him to his feet, far too quickly, and he almost blacked out. The air rolled with the melody of speech but it sailed past his ears without pausing to be understood. His good arm was pulled over narrow shoulders. Leather and lavender washed past him. Jess. He tried to walk, but he must have been too slow because she wrapped her arm around his waist and took his weight. Something else was said. He turned his head to face the sound, determined to make sense of it.

            “Matt? Matt, can you hear anything downstairs?”

            He nodded, meaning to show he understood. He forced his senses down, pushing them as he shook against Jessica with the effort. He could hear the engine. Something wooden snapped in two. Wheels screeched against tarmac.

            “They’re moving,” he mumbled, feeling bloody saliva dribble over his lips.

            “Right. Luke, come here. We’re taking the short cut.”

            Matt felt the soft thud as Jessica pulled Luke into her other side. She kicked something that squeaked before it was launched into the air. The crash of glass was so loud Matt was sure it would shatter his hearing too. Cool, blessedly fresh air washed over him and he opened his mouth, desperate to be free of the hot stench of blood, of the two scents that shouldn’t be here, that meant more than his addled mind could comprehend.

            Jessica tightened her grip around Matt’s waist and a surge of watery blood fled over his bottom lip. Then she was moving, and Matt didn’t understand. There was a painful jolt that set his ruined ribs grating against each other, a sharp scrape and pressure on his aching shoulder. A sickening lurch and the earth vanished. Air whipped past him, cooling the skin under his mask, leaving his stomach somewhere far behind. He knew they were moving fast but he had no idea where and only a vague clue as to how. The wind increased as they fell and Jessica twisted and a low, metallic gong announced their far too sudden arrival on something cold and hard and moving. They tumbled forward, Jessica’s arm a vice around Matt as his legs swung over empty air. A sharp screech and they steadied. Then another. Jess pulled him back onto the rumbling steel, her weight collapsing over his chest. Luke was panting next to his ear, his arm tightening around Jess and keeping Matt in place. Matt raised his head blearily, trying to understand. It felt like Luke had punched himself handholds in the – were they on the truck?

            “Never,” Luke shouted over the roar of wind and engine. “Do that to me again, Jones!”

            “Hey it worked, didn’t?” Jessica hollered back, adjusting herself over Matt and taking her weight of his struggling chest. “You still with us, Murdock?”

            Giving up on understanding what had just happened, he gave a weak nod, then let his head fall back onto the metal, wincing at the harsh vibrations that _clanged_ through the impact. The truck turned and Luke tensed beside him, holding him and Jessica firmly in place. The engine groaned as they reached the hill that meant they were leaving the IGH compound. Breathing heavily, Matt wrapped his good arm around Jessica’s shoulders, the other pinned between Luke’s chest and his own.

            Feeling fairly sure they were safe, he stopped fighting the heavy blackness that was pressing down on him and let unconsciousness have him. His last impression was a dulled ache and the memory of lotus and embers.


	24. Epilogue: A Very Merry Re-Birthday to You

            The Braille reader raised another battalion of bumps, the series of dull clicks like a brief march inside the narrow box. Matt ran his fingertips over the rounded ridges and his already aching heart sank even lower in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to read any more. The evidence was there. Trying to keep his breathing steady, he searched desperately for another explanation, _any_ other explanation. But the acute stabbing pain in his heart was too loud to think around.

            He logged out of the account and slapped his computer shut, throwing it as far away as the bed would allow. The reader skittered over the plastic surface of the laptop and swung over the bed, its USB chord only just saving it from crashing into the floor. Matt’s shirt was suddenly far too tight and he undid the top button, which did nothing to help. The bandages covering his ribs were suffocating, the arm strapped carefully in a sling across his chest was too constricting, trapping him. He sat up straighter, pressing his back into the mottled glass of the wall. Forced himself to breathe deeply, ignoring the pain in his ribs.

            There was no denying it now. No hope of a happier fantasy. The numbers couldn’t lie.

            After she died on the roof, Matt had found himself added to a joint account in a bank he had never heard of. The password had been his name. Hundreds of thousands of dollars rested there. More than he had spent on college. More than he’d ever seen in one place that was somehow accessible to him. It wasn’t a hard hint to follow. Reverently, he had transferred a few thousand into his own account every few months, giving himself just enough to get by during his pro bono cases. His last withdrawal had been in November.

            The last withdrawal recorded was eight days ago. Seven thousand dollars.

            Only one other person had access to this account.

            Elektra was alive.

            He had read through the recent transactions with a heart bursting with a wondrous joy that ached with its intensity. She had started withdrawing in December, less than three weeks after Midland Circle fell. Quite apart from anything else it proved beyond doubt that she was Elektra again, that she remembered her life. Matt seriously doubted details as banal as a bank login would resurface in a dream or flashback.

            She was alive. Out there, by the looks of it living comfortably, and largely in cash. Though there was a generous donation to the Saint Agnes Missionary Centre on Forty-Fourth Street. Which saved Matt another investigation.

            The joy had soured the more he read. She was moving around, as she always did, but she hadn’t even left the east coast. She was close by, maybe searching for him? Had he been stolen from the centre before she could track him down? Maybe she had been off finding somewhere safe and quiet for him to heal, but when she returned to pick him up he was gone. So she had been looking for him all over the coast.

            Or so he had foolishly allowed himself to hope. The single deposit – the only one since before Nobu returned – eviscerated his optimism. And his faith.

            Fifteen thousand dollars transferred from Island Grant Holdings, dated barely a month after Midland Circle collapsed.

            IGH.

            She had sold him.

            Matt curled forward, keeping his braced knee straight, and held his head in his hand, rubbing the heel of his palm into his forehead.

            It couldn’t be true. It just ... couldn’t be. She loved him. He could never doubt that. And she didn’t need the money, even with her lavish lifestyle. So why did IGH send her fifteen thousand dollars the same week his file started? Had they lied to her? Promised her they’d heal him? The sisters in Saint Agnes were hardly medical professionals and according to Claire he had been seriously hurt in the collapse. His memories were too nebulous and hazy to be helpful. But maybe she had thought they’d treat him. Maybe she didn’t know what they really did to people there.

            If he hadn’t known her, known her fierce intelligence, her independent spirit and contempt for relying on others, he might have believed it. The only other strand of hope he could cling to was the other scent that had begun haunting his nightmares.

            Madam Gao.

            She must be involved. Somehow. Maybe she had some way to control Elektra, or they might have struck a deal. Maybe ... maybe sending him to IGH was the only way to keep him alive. Gao surely wanted him dead. Elektra would never have allowed that. Maybe being sequestered in a torturous prison was some form of compromise. Some way for her to protect him that he couldn’t understand just yet.

            He heaved a sigh that sent another twinge through his chest. He was grasping and he knew it. He didn’t have enough information to figure this out and nothing was going to make sense about this until he did. There must be an explanation. Elektra may abandon him, but never to a fate like that. Not after everything they’d been through. Not after holding each other as death fell around them.

            The door to his room slid open after a knock he only belatedly registered. A soft scent that reminded him of sunshine and a hint of coconut rolled into his room. Karen.

            “Hey,” she greeted quietly, hovering on the threshold. “You okay?”

            He tried to smile, though it didn’t feel convincing. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

            She tutted softly and came to join him on the bed, reaching for his hand as she sat down.

            “Not exactly in the mood for a party, huh?” She spoke to their hands. Her skin was so firm, so warm against his. Real. Tangible. He ran his thumb over her knuckles and shook his head.

            “Do you want to talk about it? Whatever’s bothering you?”

            The corner of his mouth twitched. But he shook his head again. “Not yet, anyway.”

            “IGH?”

            “Mostly.”

            He felt her nod. “The article will publish in a couple days. Then we can fight back. Hurt them back.”

            He smiled at the fire in her tone, genuinely this time. She had barely slept since they broke the prisoners out of IGH, over two weeks ago now. He remembered her being by his side in those first hazy days when Claire had all but tied him to his bed. She had been there almost every time he rose groggily to the surface, usually with her laptop set on the bed against his thigh. Her calm presence, the stroking rhythm of her skin on his, had kept him sane during the withdrawals.

            Claire had had to reset a lot of bones. Wanting to spare him unnecessary pain, she’d given him morphine for the first few days, when he couldn’t stay conscious long enough to tell her not to. It was only when she’d started to wean him off that he was lucid enough to stop her, make her promise never to give him morphine again no matter how much pain he was in. Morphine, he had learnt as a child, was not worth the dizzying confusion and terrifying fog that all but erased his enhanced senses. Recovering from three days of carefully monitored doses had taken a lot out of him, but, he had realised with a wave of miserable guilt, not as much as it had of Claire.

            “You know we’re gonna bring them down, right Matt?” Karen asked earnestly, bringing him back to the present. “We’re going to win.”

            He nodded, trying again to smile for her. “I know. They don’t stand a chance up against you and Foggy. Not to mention Hogarth.” He gave a slight shudder which he instantly regretted, but he kept the pain from his face. “That woman’s amazing.”

            She laughed. It warmed his heart, but somehow made the ache worse.

            “C’mon, they’ll be arriving soon.” She released his fingers and her hands moved to his throat as she redid the button he’d undone. “Which means you need to be decent, Mr Murdock.”

            He caught her wrist before she could pull it away and pressed a kiss into her palm. She laid her hand on his cheek and he leaned into the pressure, keeping his fingers around her wrist. Her pulse beat steadily into his fingertips, but he didn’t need the contact to know it. He could hear her just fine.

            With a deep sigh and another buried wince, he let her go and adjusted his glasses.

            “I’m probably gonna need shoes, then, huh?”

             

             

            On another day, he would have enjoyed it. Not the attention. But having everyone in one place without some looming catastrophe hanging over them. It was nice to share the simplicity of pizza and beer with friends. Luckily Foggy had taken over the role of host, leaving Matt to mingle lazily from the couch. Despite the severe lack of chairs, the atmosphere was light and happy, and Danny was recanting a vivid tale of a donkey race in K’un-Lun, drawing all attention and slagging his way while Foggy poked holes in his story. Jessica had conveniently been refilling her glass for almost five minutes, which happened to be when Danny started talking. Using his empty glass an excuse, Matt got to his feet.

            Karen held out the crutch before he could take a step. He glared at her, loathing the damn stick.

            “Beware the wrath of Claire,” she breathed, low enough for only him to hear her. Fighting a smile because she really didn’t know how vengeful that wrath could be, he grudgingly accepted the stupid thing and wedged it under his arm.

            In fairness, it did lessen the throbbing in his knee.

            On the other hand, however, the pain was better than the mocking.

            “What’s up, Long John,” Jessica greeted as he leant against the counter beside her. “Top off your rum?”

            He turned his most withering glare on her. “Claire says I can’t drink.”

            She snorted. “Right, well, there’s a good boy.”

            “So be quick about it,” he continued wryly, holding his glass out to her, keeping it under the counter and, he hoped, out of Claire’s eyeline.

            Jessica chuckled and spilled a finger of whiskey into the tumbler. “So how’re the senses these days?”

            He waited till he was sure Claire was looking at Danny before taking a sip. Or a gulp, to be more accurate. He relished the burn as it slid down his throat, passing like a balm past his heart. Just another bottle or two and it’d be numb.

            “Pretty much back to normal. Well, my normal.”

            “So we can’t talk smack about you in the next room anymore?”

            He grinned. “Not if you want your ‘spontaneous’ nicknames to be a surprise.”

            She took another swig of her enviously full glass. “Asshole.”

            “Meh, unoriginal. D plus.”

            She snorted around her swallow. “Did you just _grade_ my insult?”

            “Yep. Pretty lacking. You can do better.”

            “Dickwad.”

            “Nice. Fifth grader give you that one?”

            She bumped him with her shoulder, lightly, since she was on his right side, and reached to top up his drink. They listened to their friends’ laughter effervesce at something Trish had said, each enjoying the relative quiet of their alcoholic corner.

            “Must be weird being back here,” she said after a while.

            “Hm? Yeah, it is.”

            “Foggy give you back all your crap?”

            “It’s not like there was a lot. But yeah.” He turned to her, smiling softly. “He told me you helped him pack it all up.”

            She shrugged and took another swig. “It was a slow week.”

            He chuckled at that. His mind returned to her question.

            “The place feels ... different,” he admitted quietly.

            “Could be the shitty patch job on the cracks. What, did a blind guy do it? I mean real blind guy,” she added, catching herself.

            He couldn’t quite hide the proud smile that tugged at his lips at that. “Foggy’s cousin. He does drywall.”

            “Not well.”

            Matt shrugged his good shoulder.

            “Different how?” she prompted when he didn’t speak again.

            He shook his head. “I don’t know. Just ... like it doesn’t fit anymore. Like too much has changed.”

            “Sounds like the problem’s not the apartment.”

            “I know.”

            She tipped more whiskey into his glass. They drank in silence, Matt covertly knocking it back whenever the others were distracted, antibiotics be damned. Foggy and Karen had been watching him ruthlessly since they got the files. Trading shifts to ‘keep him company’. The half-healed cut hidden by his sleeve gave a passive-aggressive twinge. He guessed he couldn’t blame them.

            “I never properly thanked you,” he said suddenly. “For everything you did for me.”

            “Yeah you did. Shut up and drink.”

            “No, Jess. I’m serious.” He turned toward her, leaning his hip on the counter to keep his weight off his knee. The crutch was propped, forgotten, behind him. “I wouldn’t’ve –”

            “Save it, Matt,” she interjected quickly. Then, more softly, “I get it. We’re good.”

            He held his tongue for a moment, judging her heartbeat.

            “Can I say one thing?”

            “No.”

            “I’m gonna say it anyway.”

            “Any more than ten words and I punch you.”

            He chuckled, but accepted the challenge. “You ever need me for anything, I’m here. I promise.”

            He felt the jerky bob of her head as she nodded, quickly distracting herself with another mouthful of whiskey. But he heard the faint skip in her heart and knew he needn’t say more.

            Danny had finished his story and the group broke up into smaller conversations. Karen and Claire were discussing him, wondering if he was eavesdropping or not. He made a point of not looking at them and Claire asked Karen if his nightmares had gotten any better. Not wanting to hear the answer, he turned back to Jessica.

            “Jess?”

            “Mm?”

            “I want to hire you.”

            The glass clinked against the counter as she set it down. Her hair scraped delicately against her jacket as she turned to him, the strands catching in the fibres of her scarf.

            “You want to hire me?”

            He nodded.

            “I’m not gonna like this, am I?”

            He shook his head and needlessly adjusted his glasses. The ache was making him feel raw. Exposed. Weak.

            “I don’t do pro bono,” she said after a pause, refilling her glass. Matt concentrated on the burn of the smell, the slosh of the liquid as it settled in the glass.

            “How about a flat fee? Five thousand dollars. Upfront. In cash.”

            Jessica choked on her drink. He could almost feel the power of her incredulous glare as she turned to face him.

            “How the fuck do you have five thousand dollars in cash?”

            “Well it’s not in cash yet, but it will be.”

            “Is it poker? Or the races?”

            “What?”

            “The money. How you can – could – afford this place. There’s no way the money your dad left you got you past college. C’mon, what gives?”

            He tried not to let his expression shutter at the unexpected mention of his father. How had she even known about his inheritence?

            “Does it matter?”

            “I’m curious.”

            “Do you want the job or not?”

            “That depends.” She took another, longer pull on her glass. Matt copied her, forgetting to check if they were being watched. “What am I investigating?”

            He dropped his gaze and took a fortifying breath, wondering how few words were necessary to relay this. He decided to get it all over with in one breath.

            “I smelled Madam Gao in Stryker’s office. There was a secret passage behind his bookcase. Elektra was there too. I checked her bank statements and she’s been withdrawing cash since December.” The worst of it needed a whole new breath to sail the words the short distance from his lips to Jessica’s ears. “And two days after my file started in IGH she received fifteen thousand dollars from Island Grant Holdings.”

            There was an acutely uncomfortable pause.

            “Holy fuck.”

            “Yeah. I want you to find her. But stay discrete, keep your distance. Don’t engage.”

            “Matt, you’re shitting me.”

            He frowned. “Deadly serious.”

            “You want me to – Elektra is alive and – Madam Gao? Didn’t think this was worth sharing with the rest of the class, asshole?”

            He dropped his gaze to hide his scowl.

            “I need you to be discrete,” he repeated. “We’ll tell them when we know what’s going on. Not before.” He could feel her anger rolling over him in waves. “Please, Jess. Keep this between us.” His attention flickered to the living room, where Karen and Foggy and Claire and all the other people he loved sat, chatting, enjoying themselves. All the people she could hurt if she came back. If he let her.

            Jessica was quiet for a long moment. She didn’t even sip from her glass.

            “Fine. But only because it sounds like the crazy ex you tried to die for sold you to be tortured for months on end.”

            He gave a strangled half-laugh at her frankness. “Thanks,” he said dryly. Then, with sincerity, “I appreciate it.”

            Her jacket rubbed briefly against her scarf as she shrugged.

            “I still got business with IGH anyway.”

            His ears pricked. “The file wasn’t enough?”

            She swallowed her intended answer and shook her head. “Gave more questions than answers. But it’s a start.”

            He leaned into her shoulder for a moment, doubting she’d allow a hug.

            “If you need me,” he offered quietly. She nodded and took another drink.

            “C’mon, we’re missing the party,” she said gruffly, pushing off from the counter and heading for the couch.

            Matt sighed and rubbed his forehead. Party. Even the concept felt alien. Foggy’s laugh rose above the general din and despite himself, Matt smiled. His laugh had always been contagious. He reached for the damn crutch and hobbled out of the kitchen, keeping his smile in place. He owed them some small piece of happiness. God knows how long it would last.

            Claire scooched to make room for him on the couch and he squeezed in between her and Karen. She leaned over and whispered, her voice mildly menacing,

            “Antibiotics and scotch don’t mix you know.”

            He grinned and feigned a look of mock innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Mm-hm. I’m not above prescribing another week of bedrest, _Daredevil._ ”

            He turned imploring eyes on her. “C’mon, Claire. It’s my re-birthday.”

            She snorted into her beer and leaned back into the couch again. He counted that as a win.

            Idle chatter filled the normally quiet loft, peppered with frequent laughter and insults, mostly from Jessica, and mostly directed at Danny. Matt sank into the cushions and let himself relax as the many beats of his friends’ hearts washed over him, creating a private symphony for him to enjoy. Luke’s steady drum beat, Claire’s lighter harmony. Jessica’s determined rhythm. Karen’s deceptively strong lilt. Foggy’s reliable cadence, as familiar to Matt as Hell’s Kitchen itself. He wrapped the sound around himself in an invisible cocoon, shutting out the myriad aches that jostled for his attention. Incubating himself in the safety of their presence, he fell into conversation with a light smile and ignored the bark of pain in his ribs when he laughed.

            When the last of the pizza had been inhaled (by a surprisingly ravenous Danny), Foggy got to his feet, half-empty beer bottle in hand.

            “Okay, okay, it’s toast time.” The little crowd hushed respectfully. Except Jessica, who groaned. Trish elbowed her into politeness.

            “I just wanna say,” Foggy continued, his heartrate speeding up ever so slightly. A partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in New York and he still got nervous taking the spotlight. A swell of affection rose in Matt’s chest. “That last time we were here, I never thought we’d be back again, actually having _fun._ I still don’t really understand how this happened, but hell, I’m not complaining.”

            His voice lowered, the joviality giving way to reverent sincerity.

            “I can’t say ‘thank you’ to you guys, because those words just don’t cut it. Somehow, you brought me my best friend back, and I’ll never be able to repay that miracle. Matt, buddy?” He turned to face Matt, who was trying (and failing) to keep his cheeks from burning. “You are a giant pain in my ass but you’re also the best thing to ever happen to me. Or maybe,” he added playfully, “the second best. I mean, passing the Bar was pretty great too. But, in all seriousness, buddy, I got a taste of what life’s like without you and I’m here to say it fucking _sucks._ So, since as of today Matthew Michael Murdock is officially and legally alive again, happy re-birthday you handsome bastard!”

            Foggy raised his bottle and the others followed suit, cheering as their glasses and bottles clinked together.

            “Speech!” Jessica called. Matt through her a glare of deepest betrayal. Unfortunately, Danny didn’t see it and seconded her request.

            Feeling supremely uncomfortable, Matt cleared his throat.

            “Don’t you wanna stand up so we –”

            “Shut up, Jones.”

            She giggled. The jerk.

            “Uh, well,” he started, wishing he couldn’t feel all their eyes on him. “Um, what Foggy said goes for me too. I wouldn’t be here without all of you and I, uh, I don’t know how to thank you for that. It’s, um, good to be here.”

            Hoping that hadn’t been as horrible as it had felt, he raised his glass and prayed someone would change the subject. Karen lay her hand over his wrist and squeezed gently as they all lifted their drinks again.

            Thankfully, conversations bubbled back into being and the focus shifted to less embarrassing matters. Claire got up to grab another beer and Foggy stole her seat, wrapping an arm around Matt’s shoulders, his hops-spiced breath rolling over him.

            “How ya feeling, buddy?”

            Matt opened his mouth to answer flippantly, but he hesitated. Karen’s thumb was rubbing gentle circles into his wrist, Foggy’s hand was firm on his shoulder, and he was surrounded by more friends than he’d ever had before, all of whom would – had – risked their lives for him. His mouth quirked in a soft smile.

            “Pretty lucky, Fog.”

            Foggy pulled him into a one-armed hug, ruffling his hair in a way he knew Matt hated. When he released him, Matt was beaming.

            _Pretty lucky._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading, I hope you’ve enjoyed all the feels! I have never had such an amazing response to anything I've written (like, ever) and I have never felt so encouraged and appreciated as a writer and honestly, your comments have really meant the world to me. I had planned this fic for 11-13 chapters, and as always when I got to writing other scenes revealed themselves, and I'd normally just distill their essence into an already planned chapter, but with so many people being so supportive I felt I was allowed let the whole story grow and now it's more than doubled the chapter plan I scribbled out! Thank you all so much for boosting my confidence and reminding me how wonderful it can be to write fanfiction. I send you all hugs!
> 
> In terms of sequels, clearly the story has plenty of room for one. I must first return to my book, however, since it’s been giving me pleading puppy-eyes for its next draft for weeks now. I will update this fic when/if a sequel is definite, but whether it's this or another, I'll be back writing Daredevilish feels when draft two of the book is done! Until then, happy reading friends!
> 
> UPDATE: The sequel lives! Check out the sneal peak for Devil's Inferno in the next chapter, and scoot over to my profile to read the rest! Thanks again for all yoir wonderfulnessisms reader friends :)


	25. Sneak Peak: Devil's Inferno

            If he had had time to think, he would have thought of her. The woman who had saved his life.

            But she had done far more than that. She had woven a safe harbour for his mind out of nothing but words and embraces and affectionate insults. She had given him a reason, a concrete purpose and desire, to keep his heart beating. She had taken hold of his soul in her own scarred hands and dragged it from a darkness so profound he knew, without her, it would have consumed him.

            Jessica Jones.

            His hero.

            If he had had time to think, he also would have known she would never forgive him for this. She would be furious – she would rage at him, call him selfish, an idiot, a jackass, a martyr. A coward. And she would be right. But that couldn’t change anything. It was too late.

           This was who he was. The person she loved, and accepted. She knew him better than anyone else and, much as she may hate him for it, she would understand that he could not stand aside and let others suffer. Not when he could prevent it. Not when they were people he loved. She would understand and she would never forgive him.

            He barely had time to think of Foggy. Or Karen. The mere hint of a life without them was all the convincing he needed to make this last, final penance. But to him, it was no sacrifice. To him, it was the only choice conceivable. They were his anchor. His tether. They kept him grounded, kept him human. He knew himself well enough to know that without them, all trace of Matthew Murdock, would die and fade away, consumed by the pain of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, incinerated in the inferno of pain and fury and the burning, all-consuming importance of _the mission_. Without them, everything that made him a person, that made him more than the weapon Stick had always wanted him to be, would perish. IGH had all but proved that.

            He would miss them. All his friends, all his loves.

            If he had had time to think about it, he would have felt a stab of icy fear at the thought of what lay beyond this final step, if his virtues had outweighed his sins. If the eternal flames would gorge on his crime-heavy soul, fuelling the inferno he had arrogantly, vainly, tried to escape.

            He did have time – just the barest, most fleeting of moments – for his doomed heart to give a hopeful flutter. He might see his dad again, if he passed the test. He might even _see_ again.

            Matthew Murdock’s final thought though, before the blackness came, before Jessica’s screams faded unnaturally in his too-keen ears, before the tang of her tears and the rust of his blood left his tongue, was so pure and simple, so deeply true, that had he had the time, he wouldn’t have known quite how to say it. Just as the warmth of Jessica’s hands on his skin evaporated to the ruthless, relentless cold that eroded his every heightened sense, Matt forced his lips into one final, farewell smile. His last, feeble breath ghosted from his suffocating chest, carrying with it a final hope that this time, he had done enough. That this time, he had been enough. That maybe his loves could forgive him one last time.

           But the words never formed.

            He was out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something sequely this way comes ...
> 
> There will be angst! There will be hurt/comfort! There will be bonding and fighting and revelations! But most importantly, there will be Jess/Matt! Darejones! Love blooming in bloody corners and in the shadows of haunting nightmares!
> 
> Chapter One of Devil's Inferno will be published (as a separate fic) next week, so keep an eye out, my friends. It's time the Devil returned to Hell's Kitchen.


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